


The A-Priori Inside Us

by DayStar



Category: Altered Carbon (TV), 방탄소년단 | Bangtan Boys | BTS
Genre: (probably), Abuse, Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Altered Carbon Fusion, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Angst, Animal Death, Body Dysphoria, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Fluff, Found Family, Gangs, M/M, Minor Character Death, References to Depression, Slow Burn, Smut, Swearing, Too many puns, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:15:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 77,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25529533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DayStar/pseuds/DayStar
Summary: In a futuristic age where a person can be coded and inserted into a new body, the rich can live forever. Born to a wealthy family, Jin expects to live life at a lofty and uncaring height. His expectations go awry when his body is murdered and a small gang steals his ‘stack’ and resleeves him in a criminal. Thrust into a gritty, neon world far below his life as an immortal, where death can be Real, Jin will discover truths that challenge his perceptions and make him wonder what - if anything - immortality is worth.
Relationships: Jeon Jungkook/Min Yoongi | Suga, Jung Hoseok | J-Hope/Park Jimin, Kim Namjoon | RM/Kim Seokjin | Jin
Comments: 16
Kudos: 46





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First things first, this is a rewrite of my older fic Searching Souls in a Guilded Cage. Long story short, when I was uploading the chapters of that fic, I was in a rush, posted a very incomplete template version, didn't notice, deleted the wrong files, and ended up losing about a quarter of the story. That was a lot of work yeeted into the void and I was too dispirited to rewrite it for a long time. However, the sun is shining and I've realized there's some stuff that I could really improve/expand on the old fic, so I've decided to start posting it again on a weekly basis. The first half or so will be about the same, but after that, there will be a great deal of changes and added content. 
> 
> Anyways! With that covered... I need to extend a second fervent thanks to the person who did art for this story, Miranda! You can (and should) find her on [Tumblr](https://mirandarv17.tumblr.com//), where she posts a lot of great art of BTS and other fandoms! She was such a sweetie through this whole long process, and I hope you give her a chance because she did an amazing job and I messed up posting the story properly the first time around and that shouldn't stop her art from being seen! 
> 
> And last, for those of you who are Altered Carbon fans, just a note that I'm taking a mix of both the first book and the TV show, and I am occasionally seriously divorced from canon with this.
> 
> Please, let me know what you think! Comments and kudos always welcome, but also critique!

The person sitting across the table is nothing more than grease on a squeaky wheel, yet Hoseok finds himself personally disliking the man. For one, he keeps making small, covert gestures, leaning over the desk with watery blue eyes, pitching his voice low as though he were sharing a secret Hoseok should be honoured to receive. There’s nothing honest about his too-pale face, his flickering gaze, his eager attempts to be ingratiating even as he lowkey insults the precinct and everyone in it.

It also doesn’t help that he’s being a pain in the ass. Hoseok’s smile doesn’t falter, though, even as he shifts, bouncing his feet under the desk.

“The Kim family,” he repeats for what feels like the fiftieth time and is probably closer to the fifth, “has no legal claim over Seokjin’s body or stack. He was found outside of their home. Further, there is simply no _reason_ for them to be in control of him at this time. I understand how distressing this –”

“Very distressing!” the man interjects, as though that were the point Hoseok had been making. “Very distressing, captain!” Each syllable is punctuated by a nervous, one-fingered tap on the desk, and Hoseok needs to supress his neurochems from flaring up with every tap. “Mr. and Mrs. Kim are absolutely distraught. To have their child back, to know that he is in safe keeping, that would do wonders for their emotional states.”

Idly imagining foisting this man off on one of his lieutenants – not that he ever would – Hoseok brushes back his black bangs, keeps his voice pleasant. “He’s being kept in our most secure storage area, Mr. McCall. We have very rigorous security measures.”

The lawyer’s eyes dart around the small, tidy office, his lips pursed. Hoseok knows it doesn’t look like much. Truth be told, it’s not. But the skeptical implication of that gaze – that Hoseok’s people aren’t good enough – has his own mouth tightening, aching to pull into a frown. He indulges himself for a moment and lets his neurochems activate, pulsing with lightning reassurance through his nervous system and bringing everything into bright focus. It’s a heady sensation, the flood of a potent cocktail of chemicals, difficult to let go, and he could just keep them going, just keep riding that rush…

But he won’t. Not at work. That’s the promise. Hoseok shuts the drugs down, and doesn’t let the resulting plummet show on his face.

Mr. McCall clears his throat, unaware. “Well… yes. But the Kim family have the means to set up an invested, careful and personal watch over Seokjin. They would spare no expense, whereas your department…” Another quick look at the room, hands brushing over the faded wood of Hoseok’s desk. “Your department surely does its best with what it has,” the lawyer finishes.

 _Fucking Meths,_ Hoseok thinks, and now his grin is really being threatened – maybe using his chems hadn’t been a great idea. He’s always been a strong believer in smiles being better than whips to get people to do things, but in this case… damn, theories are being tested. He’d rather be laughing any day, and his officers respond to it better than marine-sergeant shit, yet Hoseok can’t help but wonder if slapping on a glare wouldn’t get rid of this man more quickly.

Mr. McCall notices the change, either from simple perception or, much less likely, some kind of basic empathy implant, and a good deal of his fawning disappears. “Captain,” he says, again leaning forward, “truth be told, this is a mere formality. Between you and I, the Kims _will_ have their son back. Either they will get him from you, and be in your debt…” He trails off meaningfully, and Hoseok, jiggling one leg to try to get rid of his irritated energy and the remains of his chem dose, doesn’t reply. Better to make the lawyer say it out loud, get it all out in the open. He’s recording this conversation, anyways.

“ _Or,_ they’ll go over your head to someone better suited to deal with a situation of this nature.”

Hoseok can’t help it. He stands up and straightens his black uniform, all in one easy, graceful movement that doesn’t quite mask how angry he is. Yeah. Neurochems were the best invention since God in terms of combat, but they sure as hell don’t help his temper much. “I hope your clients will be able to find someone better suited, Mr. McCall. I don’t think they will, but we can always hope. In the meantime, though, I have a precinct to run.”

“So you won’t take this murder seriously? You have better things to do?”

“I take all murders very seriously. Particularly when the victim’s parents won’t allow us to spin them up to testify. That’s pretty serious, the way I see it.”

McCall bristles. “I don’t know what you’re implying, but Mr. and Mrs. Kim are very devout persons. While they have no compunctions about switching sleeves to maintain their longevity, they view uncontrollable events – such as the very unfortunate case with Mr. Seokjin – as an act of the Almighty. They can in no way jeopardize his soul by –”

“I’ve got the pamphlets; the Neo-Cs show up at the precinct often enough. You don’t need to quote their beliefs at me.”

The lawyer gets to his feet with forced calm, and that’s enough to get a sincere smile back on Hoseok’s face. Bluster and threaten all he wanted, McCall’s family wasn’t one of the big three Meth families, long established and running everything in Triptych on a leash. They were going to have to call in more than a favour, or two, if they wanted Seokjin’s body back, and in the meantime…

Well, in the meantime, Hoseok would be very interested to know just _who_ had killed Seokjin. He would also be very interested in finding out why his family, who refused to give him a new life in a shiny new body, still wanted him back so badly. 

Yeah. And in the meantime, until Hoseok got an official letter signed by the higher-ups, or God Himself, Kim Seokjin was staying right where he was, stack, sleeve, and maybe even soul, too.

\---

About six hours later, long after the Meth dog had slunk out of his office and long after his shift was officially over, Hoseok was in the breakroom, joking with one of the newest squad members. “What, you thought the captain was allowed to leave the station? These bars,” he plucks at one of the rank insignia pinned neatly to his jacket, “will electrocute me if I try.”

Jaemin’s eyebrows furrow briefly, and Hoseok knows why he’s hesitating. You don’t get to be captain without getting a reputation, and his reputation isn’t exactly _soft_. The recruit is wondering if it’s safe to joke, safe to loosen up. Hell, of course it is. They’re in the damn breakroom.

“Yeah,” Hoseok continues offhand. “There’s a reason I made captain at my age. Last captain wanted to leave the station and, well, he tried and he fried. Insta-promotion, y’know?” He laughs at his own joke, loud and sudden. That scares the hell out of Jaemin, the black-haired man rocking back in his chair, but it gets him to offer an only-slightly shaky smile, too – better than nothing.

Tanesha shuffles into the room, looking half-dead, her curly black hair a frizzy halo around her drawn face. He can’t really blame her; not everyone’s a night person, himself included, and The Curve isn’t exactly the quietest precinct in Triptych. He slips out of her way as she stumbles to the coffeepot – she sniffs at it, grimaces, shrugs, and then pours herself a cup. The best tech minder in the business is not exactly picky when it comes to her caffeine high.

Not that he can judge when it comes to being picky about highs. His skin prickles at the thought.

Leaning against the table, nose almost buried in the mug – like she’s hoping the scent alone will give her a jolt – Tanesha asks, “What’re you still doing here, captain Jung? Thought you had afternoon shift.”

“Afternoon, night, morning, I got ‘em all.”

“Please,” she snorts at his grand announcement. “Even _you_ don’t have that much energy.” Suddenly glancing at Jaemin, the tall woman raises an eyebrow. “He been feeding you that bullshit story about being trapped here?”

“Uhh… no?” the new recruit answers, cautiously side-eyeing Hoseok. Hoseok flashes him a thumbs up.

“Please.” Tanesha snorts again, leaving off her coffee long enough to gesture with the mug at the captain. “Don’t let him impress you too much. Just remember, only reason he can do fifteen-hour days is ‘cause he’s outfitted with enough hardware to run a small planet into the ground. Neurochem, internal board, ONI, amplifiers, you name it and he’s got it. Almost a robot, that one.”

With a sharp bark of laughter, Hoseok doesn’t let the sting of that comment enter his voice. “Aish, you won’t let me brag, huh?” _It’s not like I asked for all of these._

“You only get to brag when you deserve it,” his lieutenant replies. Somewhat unexpectedly – maybe for Jaemin’s benefit – she adds, “Besides, you deserve it so often, I have to work to cut you down when I get the chance.”

“Your hard work is appreciated,” he says solemnly, managing to remain deadpan for about four seconds. Then her round face scrunches, unimpressed, and façade cracking apart into another chuckle, Hoseok continues more seriously. “But Lieutenant Adebayo is right. I don’t expect any of you to pull long shifts like this. I get away with it because –”

The lights die, plunging them into dark and cutting off his words like a curtain dropped too soon. Suddenly an alarm is blaring from his ONI device, so loud that it completely drowns out Jaemin’s startled cry and Tanesha’s swearing. He claps his hands over his ears in pained reflex even as his eyes adjust, forcing back the dark, but it obviously does nothing to block out the noise.

“Attention,” a cool, genderless voice announces directly in his ear. It alternates with the alarm. “Attention. Cortical shelf thirteen-forty-three-forty has been illegally accessed. Attention. Immediate action required. Attention. Permission to shutdown system?”

He’s already got his watch up, the display light shining brightly in the dark, and the second the on-screen permission request appears Hoseok jabs a confirmation to block all access to the shelves. “Adebayo, get the lights back on. Preferably ten seconds ago,” he snaps at their tech, and then he’s out of the room. Even as he moves, flinging himself around desks and moving easily by the officers stumbling around in the blackness – not everyone has an upgraded sleeve and upgraded vision like he does – Hoseok is cursing. Himself, the computer system, whoever the hell is hacking them –

And McCall. He’s definitely cursing McCall. Given the cortical shelf number, he has a feeling he’s going to be seeing the lawyer sooner rather than later.

Within about two minutes, he’s barrelled down the stairs into the basement, where the stacks are stored. Here, he doesn’t need his enhanced eyesight; the wall of small compartments glows a soft red, each occupied shelf accompanied by a light blinking just above it. The stack storage is run off a separate power source, the better to stop – well, to stop exactly this from happening. Hoseok stares for a long moment at the distinctly dead light over the shelf that his ONI is helpfully informing him is empty, before pulling up his watch. A few quick taps, and he doesn’t know whether he should be relieved, confused or just plain pissed off.

He definitely wants to take another hit of neurochems. Could anyone blame him for it?

After all, Seokjin’s ruined body is still in storage, but his cortical stack is gone. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Casual reminder that this breathtaking art is done by [Miranda](https://mirandarv17.tumblr.com//) and that you should definitely give her a follow on Tumblr!

He has never in the entirety of his life woken up truly sore, but when Seokjin stirs to consciousness, the first thing he’s aware of is a throbbing discomfort in his back, one shoulder, his ribs, and his face. The next thing he discovers is that his silk sheets are gone. So are his pillows and plush mattress. No wonder he’s so sore. Letting out a befuddled groan, Jin raises a hand and swipes it across his sleep-clogged eyes. The gesture feels... wrong, somehow, but he’s too disoriented to figure out why. Movements sluggish, he fights his way free of the scratchy, cotton linen wrapped around his limbs, and stumbles out of the low bed.

He almost faceplants as his knees buckle.

 _What…_ is his groggy thought, too unsteady to even put a question mark at the end, but there’s something muffled and panicked writhing in his chest, getting wilder every second. Once again, his hand gropes across his face, trembling, feeling every ridge and bump like a blind person in unknown territory. Once again, the gesture is unsettling in its complete lack of familiarity. The screaming disquiet is at least enough to galvanize his thoughts – a little – and, blinking hard and dropping his hand, Seokjin _forces_ himself to really look around the room. There’s... not a lot to look at. A low, thin cot, a tangle of white sheets on it. A beaten-up brown dresser, splinters and dents sticking out in places like someone’s had one or more boxing matches with it. Peeling paint on the walls. An open closet with nothing but hangers in it. No kind of electrical or holographic interface, so far as he can see. In terms of luxury, it’s about as far from his bedroom as an outhouse from a mansion.

 _Christ,_ Seokjin thinks, taking a few careful steps, _what a dump._

As his disorientation begins to drain away, it’s replaced by emotions far sharper; indignation and, under that, panic. He’s in dark boxers that are a size too big, in a room he doesn’t recognize. Where the _hell_ was he? Had Taehyung dumped him in some horrible hotel to sleep off a hangover? What time was it? With that question, Jin thinks to check his wrist, but his interface watch is missing, and besides… There’s something wrong with his wrist. Something wrong with his arm, his hand, his fingers, his–

The trembling that he’d just started to supress surges back, and with it a strong urge to throw up. Overwhelming like a choking tide, the realization staggers him and Seokjin finds himself doubled over on the ground with no recollection of falling. He must be wrong. He _must_ be wrong. But –

The wrist isn’t _his_ wrist.

Time passes and, feeling as though he is hovering somehow outside of himself, Seokjin catalogues all the ways this body is not him. These fingers – when they straighten, they don’t do it right, too crooked, almost disjointed. This skin – a bit darker than he remembers being. These arms and legs – long like his, but with a musculature he could only have received from some kind of chemical enhancement, or working out daily, which he never did. The dark bruises marring the sides, thigh and arm, bruises he can’t remember receiving. The strange sounds escaping from the mouth – too high-pitched, too frantic, he’s never sounded like that. Never needed to sound like that.

When another voice suddenly breaks through the whimpers, he’s snapped back into his body – the body – with a horrible lurching sensation. He doesn’t lift his eyes from the crooked fingers, though.

“Thought the Meth would be used to it by now, not fucking hitting the floor.”

“No,” another voice replies, deeper and calmer. “They use clones, remember? I doubt many of them are used to switching to different sleeves.”

“Maybe the hole in the chest isn’t helping, either?” Yet another voice, lightly indifferent, although Seokjin is suddenly scrabbling at his bare chest, searching frantically for a wound, for an explanation for why any of this is happening. There’s nothing there.

The first person sounds like he’s rattling the spit in his mouth before he replies. “Nice, Jungkook. Real nice. Freak him out, why don’t you?”

He thinks there’s a reply, but his breath is shaking through the lungs and throat too loudly to hear anything clearly. It’s not as easy to ignore the person who crouches next to him, places a hand on the shoulder – he can feel it, but it’s not his shoulder, it’s _not_ – and lightly squeezes. “You need to calm down.”

Through a clogged throat, the words escape like wind from a bellow. “Don’t... touch... me,” he orders, as imperiously as possible. The results fall somewhat short, given that he’s currently spinning out, out of his mind, out of his head, out of control, out of –

The hand leaves, but one of the others snorts. “A Meth giving orders. I’m fuckin’ floored.”

“Yoongi.” That comes from the same man who had touched him, Jin’s almost sure. It’s said with an authority that, even in his present state, makes the body tighten in automatic tension, and he’s not the only one. The other person – Yoongi – exhales hard but then falls silent.

He still hasn’t looked at any of them, struggling to tear his gaze away from a fastidious inventory of the body, but the exchange is enough to jerk his eyes up. There are three of them. He can’t seem to focus very well at all and only gets vague impressions. One, shorter than the others, hands jammed into the pockets of a black hoodie. Another, further away, leaning against the door frame and idly playing with something obscured by fingers. The one closest to him, tall, with a long white shirt and a black beanie pulled low on his head. Seokjin thinks he’s being stared at, but he can’t tell, vision too unclear.

“What… is this?” he croaks, and that really doesn’t quite capture the screaming anxiety and confusion, or the way his voice echoes strangely in his ears like it’s two voices layered into one, or the pain still clawing at his sides and back and especially his mouth when he talks. It doesn’t capture this place, or these people. It doesn’t capture the reality of his memory, sitting distorted and jagged at the back of his mind, fighting him when he tries to drag it forward to remember – anything, really. Anything solid.

It doesn’t capture the sickening fact that he’s been placed in someone else’s sleeve, either.

The calm one replies, so simply it feels like a joke. “You experienced trauma in your sleeve, and your stack was removed. We acquired your stack, put it into this body – you’re at our place now.”

“…Trauma?” There’s a sudden, hollow agony in his chest, but it fades away as soon as it comes. “What kind of trauma?”

“You were shot,” the one leaning on the door pipes up. “With a bolt pistol. It messed you up pretty bad; ‘parently it was close to being an RD.”

“Helpful,” Yoongi snorts again, probably expecting his meltdown to surge, but though each word – shot, pistol, messed up, _RD_ – makes Seokjin shudder, it also helps. The more he has to focus on, the less he feels like he’s about to come undone. It’s easier to ask questions than to roll around in ignorance.

 _As easy as open-heart surgery,_ he thinks, and if the joke didn’t bring to mind a blown open chest – _his_ blown open chest, spurts of blood laying so thick over the flesh he can hardly make anything else out – he might even have smiled. Was that a memory, or just his imagination?

As it is, his inhale is laboured, but still steadier than the last. “Did you put me in a defective sleeve?”

“Defective?”

Nodding jerkily, unconsciously rubbing his chest, he looks up again. Blinks several times, trying to clean away the haze from his sight. Trying to fill in the gaping holes in his head. “My vision,” Jin says eventually, and the strange overlay echo is still there at the edge of perception. “It won’t focus properly. My hearing doesn’t seem perfect, I’m hurting in several places, and my memory… This body feels broken.” Wrong. Alien.

There’s a pause, and the two closer to him exchange glances. The taller one answers with what seems to be reluctance. “Not defective… no. Your visual, auditory and memory issues are to be expected. Short-term amnesia and sensory overload happen frequently during sleeve changes.” Another pause, a ghost of something; pain? Uncertainty? – enters into the smooth voice. When he clears his throat and continues, it’s gone, “Particularly if your previous sleeve died violently.”

“But why am I–” Seokjin cuts himself off, hating how lost he sounds. How whiny. His father would have scoffed at such a voice. He forces himself into a more controlled tone. “Then why am I not in one of my clones? I cannot imagine my parents agreed to – _this_.” His gesture, feeling uncoordinated and somehow awkward as it indicates the sleeve, still manages to convey a good deal of disgust.

Yoongi stirs, makes a deep, contemptuous sound somewhere in his chest. "See, Namjoon, what did I–"

"It doesn't matter." The one with the beanie – Namjoon – says, and somehow, despite now having all of their names, the very fact that he recognizes none of them makes him even more uncomfortable. Even more aware of how _wrong_ this all is. Why – why is he in this dingy room, not the clinic all of the family clones are stored in? He's never – never died before, but he's been given a tour of the facilities, and they're a far cry from the excessively bare, worn down room he now finds himself in.

"It doesn't matter," Namjoon repeats, and now he's staring at Seokjin with an intensity that, if Jin wasn't a Meth, would have been frightening. But because he is a Meth, he draws himself up and tries to ignore how empty this body feels. And how naked he is, almost literally. At least the strange vision problem is leeching away, putting everything into greater clarity. It's a small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless, and it gives him some courage.

Coolly, he says in reply, "Actually, it does matter. Quite a bit. Because if someone doesn't tell me what's going on right now, I'm going to –"

"Oh, is he up?" A totally new voice, higher pitched than any of the others, and suddenly yet another man is crowding into the room, brushing by the one at the door – Jungkook? – with a playful smile. This one is short, maybe the shortest of them all, but his hair, a brilliant shock of orange, screams his presence more than height ever could. He also looks far, far more friendly than the other closed faces. And honestly – Jin is a bit relieved at the interruption. He hadn't even known how he was going to end his sentence. 'I'm going to tell my parents' or 'report you to the police' doesn't exactly carry weight when he's outnumbered, in a place he doesn't know.

The new one, taking him aback even more, touches Namjoon on the shoulder, a gentle greeting, before planting himself right in front of Jin. "I'm Park Jimin," he says, holding out his hand, and it's completely autopilot that has Seokjin reaching out to shake it.

Politely ignoring the fact that Jin misses the first time, coordination still shot – Jungkook snickers – Jimin shakes his hand firmly before letting go. "It's good to meet you, Seokjin. How are you feeling?"

He almost replies with 'I'm fine', still struck by the genial nature of Jimin's greeting and the fact that they know his name, but catches himself in time. "Like Real Death would be a vacation at this point.” Someone coughs a laugh at that, but he doesn’t catch who. “Is someone going to tell me what's going on?" He can't tell if that comes out petulant or firm, but Jimin tilts his head, ever so slightly, and Namjoon sighs.

It's the latter who responds. "How about you get dressed, first? There are clothes in the dresser that should fit you."

"No servants here, though. Better be careful you don't hurt yourself getting them on," the one called Yoongi says callously. Seokjin bristles, both at the tone and at the appalling truth it hints at. That this isn't some strange procedure. That he's not about to be transported to the clinic, where he's _supposed_ to be. That these people... God, who are these people?

It's too panic inducing to think about too closely, and his head is still confused, muddled, like it’s been dipped in mud, so Jin does what's easier. He gets angry. "Hey! I get dressed by myself all the time."

"Give the man a medal, he gets dressed by himself."

“I don’t need any medal. I’m probably the only person in this room who actually owns gold, anyways.”

“You own it? You sure you don’t mean your daddy -”

"Yoongi," the one called Namjoon snaps, "you're not helping."

"I sure as hell helped hours ago, Namjoon. You wouldn't have gotten into the building without me. You wouldn’t have gotten his stack without me, either, and if you think I'm gonna fucking bow to this asshole just 'cause -"

"We know how much you helped, Yoongi-hyung," Jimin interjects smoothly. "Seriously, and we're grateful. We haven't even talked about the job bonus, so how about we go do that now? Namjoon-hyung and Kookie can handle this." And so saying, with another soft smile at Jin – and he wants it to be apologetic, but it isn't – the short, orange haired man leaves, herding Yoongi out of the room. The other man slouches out, surprisingly compliant given the flat look he sends Jin as he goes. The one near the door waves them goodbye, a casual flip of his hand.

Namjoon waits until they're presumably out of earshot before he tries again. "The clothes," he says, gesturing at the beaten-up dresser. "We'll wait outside, and when you're done, we can talk. Unless... do you need help? Is your body recovering well enough? I know how hard –"

"I'm sure I can manage whatever rags you've scraped together – if they _hold_ together, that is." His voice is so bitterly sharp he almost chokes on it, and Namjoon flushes before backing out, taking the mostly silent Jungkook with him. The door closes.

And Seokjin is alone.

Immediately, the shaking legs that have been struggling to hold him fail, and Jin collapses, groping at the bed post to slow his fall. All he wants to do – all he feels he _can_ do – is curl up in a ball. Tears sting at the corners of his eyes, and he's pretty sure that if he lets them fall, he's going to be crying for the next century, or at least as long as this body can live for.

 _What is going on?_ The words scratch at his throat, a desperate scream, and he's also pretty sure that if he voices them, he's going to be screaming for the next century, too. So, Jin doesn't cry, and he doesn't scream, either. He brings the knees to the chest, locks the – locks _his_ muscular arms around them, and tries to think.

This can't possibly be a joke; he is definitely the most humorous member of his family, and there's no way his mother or father would do something like this. And his siblings... no. They're competitive, yeah, but he'd been _shot._ Nearly RD'd, that guy had said. They wouldn't set up something like this, either. One of his family's enemies, maybe? They certainly had those, for all that his parents liked to sneer and pretend they were somehow unequaled in the city. Could this have been set up by them? But how could these people have stolen his stack from the family compound? Wasn't it supposed to have the strongest security measures available? And – and why is he _here_ in a _body?_ If they were taking him hostage, wouldn't it have been easier to just keep him in his stack, helpless and unable to resist, literally ignorant of everything? And where is Taehyung? Hadn’t – doesn’t Jin remember something about his best friend being with him? Maybe? Was he okay? And why–

"Seokjin? Are you almost done getting dressed?" Namjoon's deep voice calls him back from the frantic thoughts, pulling his attention to his uncomfortably cold, bare skin.

Right. Clothes. Something he can actually improve about this situation, when he can't do anything else. "Almost," Jin rasps, unsure of how long he's taken already, and makes himself stand up. Focus. He has to focus. Just – little improvements, a step at a time. He'll figure this out. He will.

The dresser yields a pair of dark blue jeans, a plain white shirt and an extremely long, lighter blue sweater with sleeves that brush his hands when he puts it on. No shoes, though. Maybe they want to make sure he can’t run away.

Not a comforting thought, so he distracts himself. At least the clothes, shabby and too tight in the shoulders though they are, help to hide the goosebumps still erupting all over his skin. And even if putting them on in his current wobbly state is an exercise in coordination and pain management, he _does_ manage it. Little improvements.

When Seokjin opens the door too hard, an uncoordinated yank that almost knocks him on his butt, Namjoon hurriedly straightens from where he’d been leaning against the wall. His hands rise like he’s about to help Jin steady himself and then jerk back down in a flustered motion. It’s frustratingly hard to read much of anything in his expression, given that Jin still feels unbalanced, but the quick way Namjoon tears his eyes away makes him seem… rattled, maybe. Uncomfortable.

“This way,” the tall man says, striding down the dark, narrow hall Seokjin had emerged into, and Seokjin is forced to follow as quickly as he can, passing by two closed doors before the hallway opens up into a small kitchen. It’s the same as everything else he’s seen; shabby but relatively clean, with a window to let in a little light. It’s also bereft of any of the technological advances he’s used to (it even looks like you need to put bread in the toaster _by hand_ ) _._ The one from before – Jungkook – is sprawled at the table, munching enthusiastically at some crispy things in a bag that Jin doesn’t recognize. Now that his vision is coming back into focus, the brown-haired guy looks… young. Not that that means much in Meth circles, but something tells Seokjin that these people can’t afford a new body every few decades.

Maybe it’s the big stain on the table that’s giving him a clue.

“Hyung, you sure pissed off Yoongi-hyung,” observes Jungkook, ignoring Seokjin so thoroughly that for a moment he actually finds himself wondering if he’s ceased to exist. From behind him, his escort exhales hard enough that he can feel the burst of air on the – on his neck and be reassured that he’s in a body.

 _Although I’m still having an out-of-body experience. Literally, I’m out of my body_ , he thinks, and the tension in his stomach is completely at odds with the joke.

Disregarding Jungkook’s comment, Namjoon pulls out a chair and gestures. Not knowing what else to do, Jin sits (collapses) into it, afraid the rickety thing will tip over. It doesn’t, and with another gesture, Namjoon shoos Jungkook out of the only remaining chair; the younger man complies with a grunt, stubbornly keeping hold of his snack bag as he rises and steps away. Not out of the room, though. And the way he leans against the counter would seem casual, except that Seokjin is pretty sure he doesn’t look away from them, at all.

Actually, he’s not even sure if he blinks, either.

With the guard – and Jin has to make himself accept him for what he is – hovering nearby, the queasy feeling intensifies, and he finds himself blinking a lot, too hard, a nervous twitch he can’t seem to stop. It must be a habit of the person who was in this body last, but his inability to control it is aggravating and makes him that much more uncomfortable.

At least Namjoon doesn’t draw it out. Hands twisting together where they’re placed on the table, the man begins directly. “You must have questions.”

That wrings an appallingly squeaky laugh from somewhere deep in his chest. He almost chokes, either on it or embarrassment. When he’s got himself together, Jin replies, “Questions? Yes, yeah, right, I have questions. Just a few.” He laughs again, still too high, and thinks that, given the situation, he deserves to sound a little bit hysterical. Maybe a little bit more than a little bit.

The man across from him has the grace to look chagrined, mouth twisting and eyes falling away for a moment. His hand rises and he removes the black beanie from his head in a meticulous motion, like he’s trying to stall for time. As far as a distraction goes, it works; his hair – utterly against Jin’s expectations – is a pale shade of pink, closer to peach than anything. The style itself – an undercut, side parted with a fringe – is about on par with the cliché of a rogue kidnapper, but for the rest… This _criminal’s_ hair is Seokjin’s favourite colour. Absolutely ridiculous.

Unaware of his thoughts – although perhaps noticing his wide-eyed stare – Namjoon runs his hand through his hair before sighing. “Look,” he says finally, “the most important thing you need to know is that this can go well for you. We aren’t looking to hurt you, or keep you… or kill you.” It would be a lie to say that Jin’s stomach doesn’t clench horribly at that, but he tries to ignore it, listening desperately as Namjoon gives him exactly what he’s been needing for the last eternity or so; answers.

Or at least _some_ answers.

“What we need is information. You give us that, and I don’t see a reason you can’t go.”

“Information,” Jin repeats, the sound dusty and uncertain from his dry throat. What kind of information could they possibly expect him to have? His bank account code was keyed into his body’s DNA, and he doesn’t have access to funds outside of that, so he can’t tell them anything about getting money. But what else could they want? Something to do with the Meths or his family? But –

“You were… murdered,” the tall man says, his soft voice dancing around the word, and it does less to Seokjin than the last few mentions of his death, although still enough. God. His _death._ He’d _died._ Who cared if it hadn’t been a Real Death, just a sleeve one? It was still – it was his body, it was _him,_ and someone had tried to kill him. And why? Why had someone murdered his sleeve?

He doesn’t realize he’s said the question out loud until Namjoon answers it. “That’s what we want to know. We know who killed you, thanks to some of our friends. That’s a step ahead of the police department. But we don’t know _why._ You have to tell us.”

Seokjin stares at him, scrabbling at the pitifully empty corner of his brain that’s supposed to contain just that information. “I don’t – I don’t know,” he says, and when Jungkook snorts in disbelief, Seokjin tosses his head angrily. “I don’t! I–I’m here, I’m alive, and I–I think I remember dying but I don’t remember why! And don’t you snort at me, you young punk! What do you think, I _wanted_ to end up here with this hole in my head? Oh, yeah, because that’s what every Meth dreams of; getting stuck in a dump and being _threatened_ for something they don’t have! That’s what we think about all day, sure, being harassed by some jumped up thugs just after getting – oh, what was it? Oh yeah. Getting shot with a _bolt pistol._ ”

It feels pretty good to shout, even if he’s speaking so fast, he’s pretty sure the kid misses most if not all of it. By the time he’s finished Seokjin has a headache, and the yelling hurts his ribs and especially his tender mouth, but it's the most in control he's felt since he woke up. They're both staring at him, nonplussed, and Jungkook has straightened from his lazy slouch, standing tense and ready. He even takes a step forward, but Namjoon waves him back.

He doesn't look away from Jin, though, and there's something strangely focused about the intensity of that sharp gaze, like he's re-evaluating when he hadn't expected to need to. Namjoon’s biting at his cheek, Seokjin realizes after a moment, the motion drawing attention to his high cheekbones, and he looks… intimidating. Seokjin sits up straighter, needing the belligerent posture to offset the way his heart is going wild inside his chest. The danger of shouting at these people hadn't occurred to him until after the fact, but suddenly the realization is there, threatening to wipe out the previous swelling of confidence. They wouldn't hurt him though, right? No, they said they needed him for information. As long as he has that over them...

"Calm down, alright? I believe you," Namjoon says abruptly, jolting his heart into an even faster pace at the sudden words, and it’s hard to tell if it’s relief or more fear cascading through his veins. "We had reason to believe you might not remember. But the hope is that, given the proper... incentives... we could jog your memory."

Stiffening even further, Jin lifts his chin, wondering if that's another threat. Wondering what "incentives" they might mean. But – they could 'encourage' him in virtual. Maybe even better than in real life. So...

"Well, I don't remember anything. And why do you even want to find out? Something tells me you aren't interested in avenging my murder." Wow. He'd managed to deliver that line perfectly; dry and sardonic. It also felt completely wrong.

Surprisingly, it's Jungkook who replies. "Why would we wanna get revenge for you? For all we know, you probably deserved it." He says it so casually, it actually hurts more than if he'd said it with spite.

"You don't even know –" Jin begins hotly before falling silent. 'Don't even know me', he'd been about to say, but that was obvious, and besides, it was a futile effort. There was something distinctly unsympathetic on the younger man's face, something cool, and Seokjin has a feeling this kid and Yoongi get on well together, so far as Meths are concerned.

At least Namjoon looks more neutral. "You're right that it isn't about you," the pink haired man replies, "but our goals are still the same. If we can find out why they murdered you, we might be able to take them down, and that's not a bad kind of justice."

"You said you know who they are. Why don't you just go after them? Actually, why not just tell the police? They'd take them into custody."

"Would they?" Namjoon asks with a wry smile. "And what if someone – one of you Meths – didn't want them taken in? What would happen then?"

"I..." It’s true enough that the Meths exercise a certain degree of control over the police (his parents had made that clear enough), but this is different. It’s him. "I'm the one who got killed, though. Me, a Meth. There aren't any Meths that want me dead, so no Meth is going to intervene if you told the police." It isn't until the words are out of his mouth that he realizes how callous they are. How easily cruel. His death would matter, but another one... theirs'...

Shifting uncomfortably, his shoulders falling under the burden of contrition where fear had only served to straighten them, Seokjin mumbles, “My family might have enemies, but not that kind. Besides, I’m not… I’m not exactly first in line. There wouldn’t be any point in targeting me." Although that makes him think of something else. “Why… why didn’t my parents have me put in another sleeve? Where did you take me from?” He’s not the oldest child, no, not the heir to the family wealth, but his parents wouldn’t just leave him to rot. They’ve always had a very strict belief in the importance of family ties.

Namjoon rubs at his eyes with a thumb and forefinger; he appears reluctant to answer. After a moment, the man says, “We took your stack from the police station.”

“The police station? What kind of incompetent officers just let you take me?”

“They didn’t let us do anything,” Namjoon replies dryly. “We happen to be good at this. Especially Yoongi-hyung.”

Despite himself, Jin is a little impressed. Uneasily so. What kind of group was good enough to infiltrate a police station yet still lived in a dump like this apartment? But still… “Why wasn’t I put in one of my sleeves, though? Or any sleeves? The government’s supposed to provide a free one for murder victims.” He thinks he’s read that somewhere, although it’s not like he’s ever had to worry about it.

This time the answer is even longer in coming. “According to the file we took, your parents put a Do Not Resleeve on your stack and refused to lift it even when some officer asked them to. They gave, uh, religious reasons.”

“Religious reasons?” Jin whispers. He feels like an echo, just repeating everything Namjoon’s telling him, but out of all the things he’s been told up to this point, this makes the least amount of sense. It also hurts the most, an ache far deeper than the bruises on his body. Why would his parents put a DNR order on him? They were practicing Catholics – went to church and everything – but they didn’t subscribe to the one soul, one stack, one sleeve principle. They didn’t force it on their children, either. So why now? Why him?

Why leave their son in some police station, like a lost-and-found toy no one would ever bother coming back for?

Namjoon is watching him carefully. He seems to be about to reply, but just as suddenly as the first time, Jimin enters the room. He snags the bag of snacks from Jungkook with a saucy wink and takes a handful before handing it back. "I got Yoongi-hyung to calm down, and paid him. He’s starting on the, uh, _other_ thing. We’re fine on that side. How's it going with him, hyung?" the small man asks, nodding briskly nod at Jin.

"We're just explaining the situation to him. He doesn't seem to believe a Meth could be behind his death."

Jimin laughs, and it's a little condescending, but not necessarily cruel. "Of course he doesn't. But I bet you haven't explained everything, have you?"

"No. Not much of anything, actually." Namjoon isn’t looking at any of them now, just examining his long, slender hands as if they hold answers. “It’s hard to know where to start. Do you want to take a stab at it?”

"Sure, I can try.” The man with the orange hair is smiling, a wide grin that sits well on his full lips, but there's something... unnerving about it. That smile reminds Jin of the way his parents and the rest of the Meths smile at each other in public, all teeth and absolutely nothing behind it. It's calculating, and on top of the news about his parents, he doesn’t know if he can take much more calculation.

"First, you gotta know about us. I assume you know about gangs?”

That’s patronizing enough to make him bristle. “Of course I do.” Not _much,_ admittedly, but there’re plenty of movies and the like that have gangs in them. Urban desperados, basically, preying on anyone they can, on the run from the police. That sort of thing.

Still smiling, Jimin tilts his head, and for a moment Jin has a feeling he’s about to be asked to recount what he suspects is pretty poor knowledge. But Jimin lets it go. “Good,” he says instead. “Well, we’re one of them. We mainly deal in protection, with some, uh, other things on the side.” It doesn’t take a genius to deduce that ‘other things’ are a bit more illegal than protection. “But pretty much we’re above-board, and we don’t do the whole drugs and weapons trade. Basically, what I’m saying is that we’re clean.” Jin’s eyebrow jumps up skeptically at that, and Jimin spreads hands in an imploring gesture. “As clean as people of our circumstances could be. But more importantly, we try not to annoy people. Not the police, definitely not Triptych citizens, and usually not Meths or gangs either. Or at least not in a way they can detect. We fly under the radar, and they leave us alone.”

Namjoon interjects, “Or at least, they did.”

“Yeah,” Jimin agrees. “They did. But for the last several months we’ve been dealing with a group that’s been wiping out the gangs in Triptych. A lot of them. These people, they came out of nowhere, and from what we can tell they're pretty much like us. Led by some guy called Rafa. Only thing is, they've got a lot of equipment. I mean a _lot._ Nothing special, but it’s hard to fight ‘em when you destroy their sleeves and they show up in a new one the next day. Same with their weapons, their ammunition; seems like every shipment and safehouse we blow up or raid just leads to them having more the next time. I wonder how they keep getting their shit replaced? Maybe it’s magic." Jimin smiles again, innocently, like he's just made an innocuous point, and that just makes it more obvious what he's hinting at.

"Anyways, this gang went after us, too, and we can't help but feel a little bit offended by that fact, you know? Obviously they didn't succeed–"

"Got pretty damn close," Jungkook mutters.

"– and it left us with an opportunity, and a challenge," Jimin continues smoothly over Jungkook's interruption. "The opportunity to strike back, and the challenge to figure out who is supplying them so that we can put a stop to it. That's where you come in. Why would a member of this mystery gang decide to put you down, to risk all of the publicity and trouble that that would bring? Maybe they knew they wouldn't be caught. Maybe they knew they would be protected. Maybe..."

"Maybe a Meth paid them to do it," Seokjin finishes weakly, and Jimin claps his hands together in delight, sharply enough that Jin jumps.

"Right! And it only makes sense that they wanted you dead for a reason. We're hoping that the reason is information – that you knew something they wanted to keep quiet. That's what we need from you. That's why you're here. To give us the why, and maybe with that, the who. If you wanted to throw in the ‘how’ to take them down, that’d be cool too."

“No. Just – no. There’s no way a Meth would want to kill _me._ I’m – it’s just not possible. And…” Seokjin’s flailing around wildly in his head, trying desperately to catch hold of a solid rejection of this mad proposal. Before, when they’d told him he’d been shot, he’d assumed it was a gang member or other criminal or something, but only someone who wanted to rob him. Not some complex conspiracy theory. And – it’s him! He wouldn’t have gotten into something stupid and dangerous like that… would he have?

A wave of déjà vu suddenly strikes him like a punch, and his hand closes into a fist of its own accord. Something about that. Something about stupid and dangerous… He loses it after a moment, the sensation fleeing away in wisps and tatters. He doesn’t try to chase it down.

This is all too much. Way, way too much. He feels like he's drowning and, in fact, when Seokjin tries to breathe it's like there's a gallon of water in his chest. His lungs constrict uselessly, and he finds himself doubled over, heaving for air that just won't come. He – Someone paid to have him – another Meth, _another_ Meth – to have him killed, he almost died, he–

Someone's hands are on his arms, placing them on the table. Those same hands gently, but firmly, tilt his head down. A simple, clean scent, some kind of herbal soap. "Focus on your breathing," he is instructed, and through the panic whistling through his ears, he can't tell who says it. "Come on, Seokjin. Deep breaths. In and out. Deep breaths. You're okay, now." The calm mantra continues, each word a steady pulse that he can tap into, can mimic, and eventually Jin finds himself echoing the words, mouthing them without a sound. Gradually his breathing begins to match the pace, slowing in spurts at first but becoming steady for longer and longer periods. At last the panic is thoroughly under his veins, not spiking through them, and Jin can breathe again.

And when he opens eyes he hadn't realized he'd closed, he finds that it's Namjoon crouched next to him, Namjoon with a hand on his shoulder and a concerned expression creasing the tired, but still resolute, lines of his face. Automatically Jin leans from that soothing touch, and Namjoon jerks his hand away. The empty space on his shoulder isn’t comforting – it feels barren – but he’s not about to let some thug comfort him. "Seokjin, are you okay?" Namjoon asks when he doesn’t say anything, still gasping a bit for air.

"It’s just that my left side feels numb," Jin eventually manages to cough. "Like it’s been cut off." Not entirely a lie; his whole body is tingling weirdly.

Head tilting, fingers playing along his thighs, Namjoon says slowly, “But are you okay?”

Forcing a thin smile, Jin replies, “Yeah. I guess I’m just all right now.”

Namjoon stares at him incredulously for a long moment, first figuring out the joke and then obviously wondering if it was purposeful. It definitely was, and after a few seconds – for the first time since Jin's seen him – Namjoon smiles. The expression transforms the serious panes of his face, eases the thoughtful creases on his forehead. It even adds dimples, adorable lines scratched around a mouth that’s suddenly warm instead of reserved. He doesn’t laugh, though the incredulous smile lingers, and it makes Jin doubt his original estimate that Namjoon is about thirty years old. He seems younger, with that smile.

"All right? Really?"

"There was nothing else left over," Jin replies, genuinely surprised the other man picked up the joke. Most people he knows don’t, or at least don’t try to. For a moment a wave of smug joy at Namjoon’s amused reaction swamps over him, a relief to feel. He laughs again, that squeaky laugh that isn't his laugh at all, but the sound falters after a few seconds, regardless of how unexpectedly relieved he feels. His situation really is too fickle to keep his amusement going.

Sobering suddenly, he shakes his head. "Look. I-I don't know if I understand all of this, but... but even if I believed you, I can't help you. I really don't remember anything."

"Try," Namjoon urges, rising from his crouch. "If you need a second, take it, but you have to try. Just picture where you were, what you were doing, before what happened."

 _Before I got shot,_ Jin thinks about sniping, but Namjoon's grin hasn't entirely faded and he doesn't feel like making the acerbic remark. "I don't remember," he repeats tiredly instead.

"Try." That from Jimin, who has stolen Namjoon's spot across the table. He leans forward energetically now. "Close your eyes. Picture anything that comes to mind that has to do what we've been talking about." When Jin hesitates, Jimin's lips quirk. It's not really a smile. "Think of it this way. The sooner you help us, the sooner you get to go home."

Home... God, he wants to be back home. Namjoon nods, and Jin closes his eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

There's nothing there. Just the darkness of his eyelids. _Try to picture anything_ , Jimin said, but it's like struggling through a liquid even thicker than water, reaching for an object obscured by a haze and not sure if you're even going in the right direction. His mind is frighteningly, stubbornly empty; all his memories of the last few weeks – maybe even months – are blurred. "I don't..." Jin mumbles, and no one replies, so he keeps trying.

His murder. He has to think about his murder. An open chest – he'd thought of that before. Lying on the ground, something digging into his hip, spasms overtaking his body, the taste of blood in his throat. Strange detachment, even though he knows he's dying. Something coming into view, waving over his face. "There was a gun," Jin says, and isn't sure if he hears someone scoff, so he ignores it. "It's big and – it doesn't look like the guns on the net. More like a tool or something."

"The bolt pistol," Jungkook supplies.

It's Namjoon's voice that comes next. "Can you remember who was holding the gun? If you can, maybe you’ll remember something else about him, how you know him, something."

He tries. He really does. But there's a sheet of static draped over the person with the weapon, and he can't seem to call them into focus. "No," he eventually replies, frustration lacing his voice. "No, I can't. I think I – I begged them for help. They didn't reply, just kicked me over," he remembers lying on his side in a rapidly widening pool of blood, one hand pressing fitfully into his wet chest, the other opening and closing spastically, "and then they just... left." That, or he lost consciousness, but either way, the trail ends there. He can't remember anything else.

He opens his eyes, shakes his head. "That's it," he says. "It might not even be real – I could just be making it up in my head. Either way, there's seriously nothing before that. Nothing about why or even – or even where I was."

Jungkook sighs and Jimin positively pouts, but Namjoon, standing next to the table, looks thoughtful. "At least that either means he took something, or he knew Seokjin personally," he says, more to Jimin than to Jin.

Jimin cocks his head. "What do you mean?"

"He didn't go over to make sure Seokjin was going to suffer RD; he would have shot him again if that were the case, when Seokjin asked for help. And why kick him over? Either Seokjin was lying on something he wanted, or shooting his chest out wasn't quite enough to get rid of his anger."

"Why would he be angry with me?" Jin exclaims. "It's not like I – or any Meth – make a habit out of hanging out with normies. Especially not criminal ones."

Namjoon’s eyebrow jumps up, his mouth thinning. “Normies?” he asks quietly, yet the disapproval is loud and clear in the question.

It’s the first time he’s sounded angry, even if only slightly, and Jin finds himself ducking his head, fixating on the unfamiliar terrain of his hands to avoid making eye contact with anyone. “You all call me a Meth, and I haven’t even lived anywhere near nine-hundred and sixty-nine years, like Methuselah. At least you _are_ all normal,” he mutters, prodded by a disconcerting mixture of defensiveness and petulance. He can’t put a finger on why he feels so foolish saying it. Isn’t he right to point it out?

Thankfully, the other man elects to ignore his mumbled protest. Or maybe not – it leaves Seokjin feeling even worse, as though his objection was so childish it wasn’t even worth acknowledging. He finds himself curling the disjointed fingers into fists and then releasing them, so quickly it’s more of a tic than anything. Is that him, or just the ghost of the last person to wear this sleeve, lingering in the muscles that were never supposed to be his? The thought threatens to send him out of the body again, into the floating sensation that had gripped him before. This time, however, propelled by his desperate need to be anchored, Seokjin holds on and keeps himself in place. _Deep breaths. In and out._

When he says nothing to fill the wooden silence, Namjoon stirs. “If he can’t remember on his own,” the tall man says, “we’re going to have to go with our other option.”

“It’s risky,” Jimin says, less of a protest than an observation.

“Yeah. But we still need to do it. What other choice do we have? His memory is no more stable now than it was when…” Namjoon trails off awkwardly, which makes Jin lift his head, wondering what Namjoon had been about to say. He gets no answer as the other man continues, abruptly business-like. “So, we’ll do it. Jungkook, you’ll come with us. Jimin, you keep trying to find the missing footage, see if anyone is willing to admit to hacking the cameras. We need to find out if something was taken.”

“Okay, hyung! I’ll go grab our packs,” Jungkook agrees, surprisingly eager as he trots out of the kitchen. _Maybe he only sounds sullen when he’s talking to Meths_.

Jimin is less exuberant, though he doesn’t appear inclined to argue with Namjoon. Biting at his bottom lip, he hesitates for a moment before nodding. “Be careful,” he requests quietly. “And… be careful with Seokjin.”

It’s hard to tell if that means be careful _of_ or care _for_ , and neither option is particularly palatable; he’s not a package, fragile glass or a bomb to be handled with care. Seokjin doesn’t exactly appreciate being talked about as if he isn’t sitting right there, either, and he scowls. “Are any of you planning on telling me what you’re talking about?”

“What if we aren’t?” Jimin shoots back, an impish smile dancing across his mouth, the worried crease across his forehead smoothing. “What would you do then?”

It knocks the wind out of Seokjin, a reminder that he isn’t in control here, when Namjoon’s straightforward sincerity had started to ease him into forgetting, and that makes him honest. “Throw a fit, probably,” he replies, and doesn’t quite manage to smile. He almost asks what they would do if he _did_ fly off the handle. Except that he’s afraid of the answer.

“Well, we can’t have that,” Namjoon says, and he smiles, a pale ghost of amusement that’s still too compassionate for this situation. For the fact that _he’s_ the kidnapper. Rising from his chair, hands braced on the worn table, Namjoon explains, “We’re going to the Ring. You were shot almost just outside. The hope is that it will jog your memory, of the event, of the people you were talking to beforehand… something.”

“The Ring…” He has memories of a teeming club, one he’d been to on several occasions, but there’s nothing significant about the memories of pulsing music and eyedrop drugs and laughing with whoever he was with at the time. And anyways, the tension is back, twisting his ability to focus on the past. “What if my memory doesn’t feel like jogging?” The empty bravado is surely better than cowering, but he does wonder. What happens if he really can’t help them? Somehow, them just… letting him go… seems unlikely.

Namjoon exhales slowly from his nose. “One thing at a time.”

About to speak, Jin hesitates when Jungkook comes back in and drops two medium-sized, navy blue packs on the table, begins rearranging their contents. For some reason – maybe it’s the way the muscular kid’s eyes narrow when they land on Jin – it’s hard to get the words lined up on his tongue out. Seokjin struggles for a moment longer, summoning his courage, but before he can blurt out what he wants to say, Jungkook straightens.

“That’s everything, hyung. Checked and double checked. And…” He pulls something out of one of the packs, and it takes Jin a moment to realize that they’re handcuffs.

He tenses, surprises them – and himself – by finding his feet more quickly than any of them can react. The movement hurts, pain throbbing from the bruises spread like latticework across his chest and ribs, but the speed is exhilarating, too. It makes him feel something he’s never felt before, in his other sleeve. Powerful, maybe. Dangerous.

The feeling lasts all of two seconds, at least until Jungkook steps forward, legs wide and brows furrowed in fierce concentration, and Jin is reminded that these people are dangerous, too.

“Don’t touch me,” he snaps, backpedaling, and Jungkook follows with a smooth grace that’s reminiscent of documentaries he’s watched about long-extinct tigers. All too soon, Jin finds a wall and can’t flee further. Trapped, he raises his hands, clenched into fists, but it’s hard to ignore the fact that they’re shaking. This body might be in fighting shape, but the person inhabiting it is distinctly not, and he doesn’t think muscle memory, honed or otherwise, is going to help him against his captors. After all, he’s never fought anyone in his entire life. He’s never had to.

_Well,_ he thinks, panicking and struggling not to drift into shock again, _there’s a first time for everything._ Maybe by some miracle he’ll save himself.

And he is saved, albeit by a miracle with peach pink hair. “Wait, Kookie,” Namjoon orders, and (miraculously) the younger boy pulls up, the sulky scowl on his face notwithstanding. Trailing two fingers over his lips, the picture of conflicted contemplation, eventually Namjoon tics his head to the side, almost shaking it, like he’s trying to persuade himself about something. “You need to listen, Seokjin,” the leader says at last, and there’s nothing soft about the jagged command in his voice as his hand drops. “If you start any trouble – any at all – Jungkook or I will shoot you. Dead. It’d be easier to deal with a stack than some idiot Meth, anyways.”

_Then why deal with an idiot Meth instead of a stack in the first place?_ he wonders but doesn’t ask, fear tying up his tongue. Instead he takes a deep breath, trying to still his shaking limbs, trying to stop the quick blinking. “…You won’t make me wear those?” Jin all but whispers when he’s found what’s left of his voice.

“Not if you cooperate.” At the words, Jungkook’s scowl grows, and Jimin murmurs something under his breath, but neither of them protests. Wordless, Jungkook puts the silvery metal into a side pouch on the nearest pack.

“Good. Great.” The bluster is as thin as a strand of hair, but it’s all he has to cling to. Besides, he made them do something. Made Namjoon do something. Even if it’s something as small as not tying him up, it gives him hope. And the hope makes him want to speak, if only to release the tension still skittering through his chest like some horrible black spider. “I’m – I’m not into that stuff with strangers, anyways.”

They stare at him like he’s crazy. Namjoon is the first to get it; his bark-like laugh, an incredulous _haha_ , bursts from him before he claps a large hand over his mouth, smothering the sound. He gets himself under control remarkably quickly, the laugh brushed away like an inconvenience, but his dimples are still showing when he drops his hand. Jimin snorts, shaking his head as he pushes back his heavy orange bangs in one slow, doubtful motion, but Jin notices the gesture only peripherally. It’s suddenly occurring to him that if Namjoon wasn’t here, or if he wasn’t the one in control, this situation might have gone a lot differently. A lot more painfully.

It sets an uncomfortable writhing across his skin, a feeling only slightly alleviated when Jungkook, probably still not getting it, mutters, “Crazy Meth,” and yanks one of the packs onto his shoulder.

Namjoon follows suit with the other pack, briskness radiating from the action. “Let’s go,” he says, in a way that makes it obvious he expects to be instantly followed.

That makes it awkward (and terrifying) to say anything, but Seokjin figures that if he’s going to play Russian Roulette, he might as well go all the way. “Uh… wait a moment.”

The way all three of them swivel in perfect unison to stare at him disbelievingly might have been funny… except that it isn’t. It’s just another reminder that he’s pushing big red buttons that probably shouldn’t be pushed, unless one wants to be shot. Swallowing hard, he continues nonetheless, needing this just as much as he had needed to say something flip. “I haven’t, um, seen myself. Or – this sleeve, I mean. In a mirror, or –” What else could he see himself in? Coming up blank on that front, Jin continues shakily. “I just… could I see myself? Do you have a mirror? Not for long, I just…”

“…need to see,” Namjoon finishes for him, irritation fading from his striking face and leaving his expression far softer. Jin nods, and the other man pauses, considering. “It’s hard, Seokjin,” Namjoon says gently after a moment. “Maybe you should wait until we get back.”

“I don’t want to.” Jungkook snorts at that and says something about snotty Meths, but Jin’s not being narcissistic. Or – well, he’s not _just_ being narcissistic. Yeah, there’s a weird kind of fear that the face looking back at him will be ugly (it’s that kind of day), but it’s more than that. Until he sees what he _is,_ he’s nothing. Less than nothing. What’s a body without a face? He doesn’t know the answer.

Fine eyebrows drawing down, as though he’s not quite sure what he’s doing, Namjoon gestures to the hallway they came through to get to the kitchen. “The door on the left,” he says.

Immediately, afraid his mirror privileges might be revoked for some reason, Seokjin hurries to the indicated closed door. Namjoon is the only one who follows. Confronted by the plain wooden barrier, however, he hesitates, his brief urgency expunged. All of the entrances in his house are motion sensitive, and when he’s out and about, he usually has someone to open doors for him. That’s not entirely the cause of his indecision, though. It’s just, the simple brass knob might be the scariest thing he’s ever seen in his entire life, and Seokjin is struck by the sudden conviction that he’s not going to manage to turn it. Hell, he can’t even lift his hand. He’s just going to stand here forever, like an idiot, like a coward, too afraid to face what’s on the other side. They’ll jeer at him, probably, these people who fit so comfortably inside their skins, and he’ll deserve it because–

A smooth, sun-bronzed arm reaches by him, and, without any fanfare, shoves the door open. “Like ripping off a bandage,” Namjoon advises from somewhere behind, “best to just get it done.” The words are brusque, but his tone isn’t.

That’s the push he needed, and Seokjin creeps into the small room, his eyes fixed on the chipped, stained white sink. Namjoon’s voice comes again, from his memory instead of from the man lingering just outside the bathroom. _Deep breaths. In and out._ His head is so empty that the words have plenty of space to spread out, blanketing him with a feeling that’s either numbness or reassurance. Breathe. He can do that. He just needs to breathe, and – look up.

The person facing him in the mirror is not by any definition ugly, but Seokjin feels no relief, because that’s not him, right? The guy is definitely Korean, and with dark, thick brows like his own, but the resemblances pretty much end there. Jin certainly doesn’t own the lurid purple bruise caressing the left side of the long, oval face, skimming across barely noticeable cheekbones. He doesn’t have those wide, hazel eyes that stare with so much anxiety he almost wants to look away. The sense of dislocation continues even when he lifts a hand to brush the messy, golden brown hair out of his face; it just feels like he’s looking out a window and someone facing him on the other side is copying the motion. Any second now they’re going to quit the game, move differently than he does. Any second now.

His fingers tentatively slide along the nose as the person opposite him mirrors the gesture, confirming what previous, blind exploration had already hinted at. It’s a little crooked, probably broken once or twice, but that doesn’t really weaken the proud, aquiline profile. Are the lips really that thick, or is their puffiness because this body has recently been hit in the mouth? It has, he’s sure of that – there’s a little cut that confirms it – but it seems like the exquisitely swollen lips are both full and rosy naturally. He’s pretty sure he’s seen fellow Meths, the kind that shell out billions for aesthetic beauty in their sleeves, with lips less perfectly manufactured than this guy’s.

_Not ‘this guy’s’,_ he reminds himself. _You. That’s you._

Easy to say. Less easy to believe.

He moves his fingers from the cut lip to the bruise, prodding at them and trying to elicit enough pain to make himself believe they belong to him. How’d they happen, anyways? Namjoon hadn’t said anything about his sleeve’s battered condition. Maybe it had been like that before they’d received the body? Maybe it belonged to some gang member who’d been arrested and put on ice, his sleeve put up for sale? That seems a likely explanation, but it doesn’t bring Jin any closer to accepting that the crooked nose and wide eyes belong to him. 

“Try to look at the whole picture. Your whole self,” Namjoon suggests as he edges further into the room, and now Jin has two strangers staring at him from the mirror. Except that he’s already more comfortable with Namjoon’s eye-catching features, pink hair and all, than he is with his own reflection.

He tries to do what the other man says, though. To take in the whole picture, instead of fumbling with the puzzle pieces that are his individual features. His face. He’s trying to really look at his face.

God, he’s attractive. He’s never had cause to complain about himself – quite the contrary – but this sleeve is on a different level. The face – his face – is not completely without edges; a slightly egotistic twist about the full mouth, a few lines and scrapes, the bent nose. But those sharp points only serve to elevate the rest of his features, giving his face an almost unearthly cast that’s… well, unnerving. Like those ancient statues of tribal deities at some museum, older than you’ll ever be, pristine and removed and probably not actual gods, right?

Abruptly, Jin is the person in the mirror. It happens violently, almost as if someone grabbed him from where he’d been standing, outside the body that’s not his body, and slammed him into it with enough force to meld them together. There’s a moment of vertigo, and he rocks forward like he’s about to fall into the mirror before catching himself on the sink, still staring at his reflection. The blur in his vision and the tinny echo in his ears are gone. When Jin moves, so does the mirror image, and now it feels ridiculous that he was ever expecting it not to copy his motions. It’s him. It’s him.

He wonders if that will ever stop sounding like a lie.

All credit to [Miranda](https://mirandarv17.tumblr.com) for the lovely work!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note to old readers: Obvs your reading experience is totally! up! to! you! but as an fyi I am tweaking things here and there even in these early chapters, so it might be a good idea to read even if you think you've already seen certain chapters :) 
> 
> Note to new readers: welcome & lemme know what you're thinking! 
> 
> Note to everyone: love you and thanks!

The gang he’s been kidnapped by apparently doesn’t own – or at least use – a car, not even a terrain-exclusive one, and they set off on foot from the little apartment complex the men live in. He doesn’t know what time it is, and the sky’s too clouded to give much of an indication, but it’s too light to be night. Mid-afternoon, maybe? There are a fair few people out, and they wind through a series of side streets, cutting by buildings that are tall but also sagging, as if the weight of keeping themselves and their hundreds of thousands of inhabitants upright for half a century or so is becoming too much. Jin considers running, or calling for help, but Jungkook had none-too-subtly shown him the pistol he’s carrying before they’d left, and he hasn’t put it away, either. Besides, when they break through the side roads into what seems to be a main street, Seokjin has other things to think about. 

He’s lived in Triptych all his life, but it might be more accurate to say he’s lived in Glass Harbour, instead. The neighbourhood – built in the ocean a short way from Triptych’s shoreline – is of course isolated from the rest of the city, but Seokjin has never realized just how removed he’s been, too. He’s been outside of Glass Harbour plenty of times – even been to the Curve, where they clearly are, given the general disrepair and the lack of multileveled streets – but never without at least several guards and a friend or two, and never really on the streets, either. His family owns several hovercars that simply coast up to whatever place he wants to go; walking the pavement is for the poor.

Triptych is a sprawling city of towering steel and glass buildings, shining pathways of cable and artificial stone arching across various levels, letting citizens walk in the sky as they move through their lives. Far younger than the Bay Area, it is a city of technological advancement and drive, of lights and steel and laws written by a Meth chequebook.

The Curve is an exception to that rule. In the early days of its inception, Triptych had been built on what was essentially two hills, with a deep cleft between the pair. That inconvenience was offset by the location – close to the shore, and, more important for the three Meth families who founded the city, perfectly situated next to a wide ocean shelf on which they could begin to build their Glass Harbour. As the city grew, all soaring heights and chrome exteriors, the gap between the two hills was overwhelmed by the buildings going up on all sides. A deep dip in the urban landscape, it received less sunlight and fresh air than neighbouring districts, and so was forgotten by the Meths who poured money into construction and maintenance.

In a city devoted to worshipping the future, the Curve is a neighbourhood left in the past. There are no networks of raised walkways to direct people through the area. Everyone too poor to move elsewhere operates on one level: the ground.

And there are apparently plenty of those people. The trek through the narrow, pitted roads, Namjoon ahead and Jungkook behind, has revealed more citizens than Jin was even aware lived in Triptych. They have to push through several crowds, hassled people in impatient groups shuffling outside a building or at a transit stop, waiting for things and headed for places he can’t conceive. Even though it’s raining, a miserable shower that sinks straight through his sweater and makes things worse, almost no one has an umbrella, or even a hood. They just accept the rain.

In the same passive way, they accept the haze smearing across neon-bright signs set up far above their heads, the pollution distorting ads for any number of cheap looking products, most of which Seokjin can’t guess the purpose of. Everyone walks quickly, eyes down or on their companions, and accepts – or ignores, it is hard to see a difference – the constant noise of the advertisements. The disembodied voices fall down from the signs and the smog like the conversations of chain-smoking angels, never quite fully understood, too distorted to catch.

“Get a… Won’t regret the…”

“…seat in the back and…”

“…like you wouldn’t believe.”

“Buy now!”

The noise and lights and people crash over Seokjin with a weight that feels more physical than mental, and he guesses these people can’t even afford neural implants or ONIs. That must be why all of the ads are out in the open instead of transmitting into the ocular displays of specific consumers, targeted based on purchasing history and tendencies. He’s only experienced op ads once – no business would dare bother a Meth without permission, and he’d just tried it for fun, at Taehyung’s suggestion – but even that hectic mess of visual heckling had been less overwhelming than the blaring sounds and sights assaulting him now.

And then there’s the sheer struggle of getting where they need to be. Jin actually finds himself grateful for Namjoon. The pink haired man seems to have no issue cutting through the crowds, and, deliberately or otherwise, usually clears enough space for Jin to get through in the process. A few times it isn’t quite enough, and, unused to the broad-shouldered sleeve, Jin jostles against a passerby or two – with irritated responses – but without Namjoon, he probably would have drowned trying to get just a few steps, let alone miles.

When they finally slow, approaching the mouth of an alley off the main street, Jin’s feet are aching. The once white sneakers they gave him have seen better days, and they’re even worse now than when he put them on more than an hour ago; it feels like the three of them walked through enough trash and mud to build a small mountain on the way here, and his shoes reflect that. Namjoon and Jungkook had been oblivious, but he’d spent most of the trip trying (and failing) to navigate puddles, wrappers, cigarette butts and things he couldn’t identify and didn’t want to. 

That, coupled with Jungkook almost literally breathing down his neck the entire time, gun in hand, and snickering whenever Jin slipped or winced or hesitated, has put him in a mood that could only charitably be called bad.

There’s also the whole being kidnapped and forced to return to the spot of his death thing.

“Will you stop that?” he demands when a foot knocks painfully against his heel for the umpteenth time, whipping around to glare at the (presumably) younger man. Jungkook puffs out his cheeks and smiles, a small overbite becoming evident with the little grin, and the innocent expression is infuriating.

No Meth would ever leave a defect like an overbite alone. So far as Seokjin is concerned, it screams poverty. And this _drudge_ had the nerve to kick him! Repeatedly! And grin about it!

If the irritation boiling under his skin is any indication, he’s probably turning an unattractive shade of red, but before Seokjin can make what might be described as a mistake and take a swing at Jungkook, Namjoon intervenes. “Leave him alone, Kookie,” he orders. “Go watch the entrance, make sure no one’s going to start anything.”

Jin is dismally certain that the chances of that are low. He’d tried making eye contact with anyone even remotely respectable in appearance on their way here, some half-baked notion of escape in his head, but very few people even looked at him. Those that did were quick to look away, and he hadn’t been able to tell if that was the fault of the intimidating sleeve he’d been stuck in, or Jungkook looming over his shoulder and scowling, or something else altogether. Regardless, the small number of passersby who happen to glance into the alley all suddenly remember important engagements elsewhere and rush off, leaving Jin stranded.

Better to just bide his time. Or something that sounds similarly calm and planned and definitely not freaking out.

“So,” he says, looking around the alley, and falls silent. It’s certainly not a glamorous spot to die in, or even breathe in. Jin literally can’t imagine why he would have been here. There’s dirt and garbage on the ground, like a carpet of very dubious design that releases an odor he suspects hints at the more disgusting uses this alley has been put to. A bunch of graffiti is scrawled on the walls, senseless black and red scribbles splattered across the bricks like blood and ichor. Someone even rigged up a holographic bit of disruption, a horrifyingly grotesque man, rail thin and warped, who flickers into being (and scares the hell out of Jin) when they get close enough to activate its sensors. The image is deteriorating, pixels missing here and there, and the whole figure wavers in and out of existence erratically. However, that doesn’t stop the holographic from going through a series of obscene gestures, the least of which is giving viewers the finger.

Namjoon is staring at the wavering vandalism. “Do you know,” he asks suddenly, “how hard those are to make?”

“Ah…” The random question takes Jin off guard, and besides, graphics have never been one of his interests.

“It’s hard. Not if you have a computer program to do it all for you, but the program would cost too much for an individual to own.” His heavy eyes flick to Jin and then back to the figure. “Most individuals. So, someone built that, piece by piece, in some kind of limited process, and they did a decent job. It looks good.”

“Good,” Seokjin repeats doubtfully as he stares at the holographic, wondering if there’s something he’s missing about the distorted piece. Or maybe Namjoon’s just a nutcase.

“Not the subject, obviously,” snorts the nutcase in question. “But the skill is there. Good rendering, skin tones… The facial expressions are on point, too. Took time, took effort, took knowledge… and it’s sitting out here, in some random alleyway, just to fuck with whatever police were here to investigate your murder. See, the mechanism is latched in place? The police didn’t even bother to get rid of it, and since they’re not around anymore, it’s not getting seen by anyone.”

This doesn’t exactly feel like small talk, but if Namjoon is trying to make a point, it’s joining the advertisements prattling above Jin’s head, lost in the haze. He rolls his shoulders, impatient, and moves away from the holographic. A few seconds later it dies away. “Look, I got killed here and I don’t care about the quality of some stupid vandalism. You dragged me to this place, now tell me what’s next.”

Taking that with a mouth that twists a little, Namjoon pivots, points to a spot on the ground. It is conspicuously less filthy than any other spot. “You were found around there. This alley is a dead end, so the guy who killed you was probably close to the entrance when he did it… unless he was supposed to meet with you or set up an ambush or something. Just… try to picture it all. See if anything comes back.” 

Compliant, if not exactly confident, Jin looks around more carefully, willing himself to ignore the unpleasantness and stench and focus on the specifics instead. He trails his fingers over the cinder blocks with only a slight grimace for what his touch smears through, studies each line and scuff in the grime at his feet. There are no windows opening up onto this alley, just featureless walls rising up on either side, blank and disinterested in the little drama taking place between them.

"When did I get shot?" he asks.

"From the police files we, uh, liberated, around two in the morning."

So, it was dark when it happened. If they're close to Ringwanderung – Jin can't be sure, he hasn't seen the building so far and he doesn't remember it's exact location from the last visit he _can_ remember – the roads probably weren't deserted. People would have heard him if he screamed. But did he scream?

The rasp of the ground is rough against his fingertips, and when he pulls them away, they're blackened with dirt. Just a bit of dirt, no blood, even though this is the spot he died in. The police apparently did a good job cleaning up; if his faulty memories are at all accurate, he bled like his heart was trying to water the dry ground. But what else is there? Night time...

He's starting to feel strange again. Disconnected, although this time it's not the sleeve that he's floating away from. No, this time the body stays with him as he detaches from the present, forcing his mind into the treacherous, bleak path of the shadowed past. There's nothing there that's solid. It's disintegrated even more than the vandalism Namjoon was so intrigued by. He has – feelings. Impressions. Maybe-might-if-could-be's that float through his head and come apart when he tries to grab them. Words lost on the tip of his tongue.

He didn't scream. Jin is suddenly certain of that. He didn't scream for help, because the man – threatened something. Threatened someone? Someone – Jin loses it. But the man – in his mind, the man is the holographic, twisted and broken and ominous as he looms up in the darkness, with no solid features to nail in place. He veers in and out of focus, and his words are as intangible as his features. Something about – about wanting, about plans collapsing, about frustration and fear, about defiance, about no no no no you can't–

With a gasp, Seokjin shoves himself up from his crouch, staggers into the wall and stays there, needing the uncaring surface to keep him upright. His chest is aching, fear closing ghostly fingers around his throat, the sensation a faded pressure. This time Namjoon doesn't try to help, but neither does he rush Jin or demand an update. That makes it – easier – to get his breathing under control, but it does nothing to help the simmering pressure bubbling under his skin. He's clenching his jaw, he realizes numbly after a moment, and can't seem to get himself to relax as dissatisfaction upbraids his self-assurance.

All of that, and he still has – nothing. Absolutely nothing. A bunch of gibberish, even less useful than a holographic placed in the middle of nowhere.

He hits his fist against the wall he’s leaning against, more of a tap than a punch, but Namjoon’s eyebrows lift at the aggravated display. “I’m guessing that means you can’t remember anything important?”

“I’m trying,” he pants. “But this is just – garbage and more garbage. I can’t put anything together.”

“Tell me a bit about it.”

“What’s there to tell? I – I got threatened by the guy, I think, and he wanted something. I don’t know if I gave it to him.” Jin coughs, trying to clear a throat that’s gone dry. “Just to be clear, that’s all maybes. I don’t – I can’t tell if it’s real or not.”

“What did he want?”

It’s not purposeful – or at least, Jin’s pretty sure it’s not – but there’s something extremely aggravating about the other man’s persistence. “Yah! Are you deaf? I told you, I don’t know!” 

Namjoon is silent for a moment, a muscle ticking in his jaw, before he turns away. "So, we're at more than one dead end," he comments, and though Jin catches an attempt at a smile at the corner of his mouth, he sounds dispirited. Not angry. Just… tired. Jin is surprised and relieved that his outburst hadn’t elicited a violent retaliation, but there’s something dimly reproachful keeping his throat tight as he follows the other man to the end of the alley. When Jungkook looks over inquiringly, Namjoon shakes his head.

"Let's go inside the Ring and see if there's anything we can pick up there." Passing a hand over his face, for a moment the pink-haired man doesn't follow his own command, just stands unmoving on the sidewalk. It lasts for all of two seconds, but it still makes discomfort sink seething hooks into Jin, somewhere low in his stomach. Obviously Namjoon is struggling to hold himself together, and that doesn't seem to speak well for Jin's immediate future. Or for any of their futures, actually. When he glances at Jungkook, the boy is biting at his lip and watching his leader from the corner of his eye, presumably just as concerned, albeit for entirely different reasons.

Dropping his hand, Namjoon gives himself a little shake. As though they were the ones dawdling, his voice sharpens as he snaps, "Let's go."

True to his capturers' words, the Ring is just a few buildings down, though the street curves sharply upward and had made it difficult to spot the sign from further down the way. The sign isn’t garish, which is surprising given how many eyesores Jin has seen on this street. Three neon rings surrounded by a fourth, all of them differing shades of blue, with Ringwanderung shot through them in a dark blue approaching black. The sign probably looks quite beautiful at night. The Ring itself is a squat building of modern black and grey angles, shorter by two or three floors than the ones on either side of it, but it's also wider than either of them. If Jin remembers correctly, it has several underground floors, too, where most of the drug dens and prostitute rooms are. Above ground, funny enough, was for above ground deals, like dancing, hanging out and eating, drinking alcohol and using some of the milder intoxicants available. Very PG 13.

There aren't all that many people frequenting the club when they enter the Ring, including security. That's not entirely a surprise, given the time, and Jin pauses just inside the entrance, letting his eyes adjust to the slightly dimmer setting while they scour the red and black couches scattered across the room. He's half-hoping he'll see a familiar face, someone to run to and beg for help – several of his friends, particularly Taehyung, like to come here, enjoying the establishment’s slight edges. Jin’s come to realize those are pretty laughable. What’s edgy about a building complete with a complement of security guards?

Although, now that he thinks about it... his friends might be wearing familiar faces, but he isn't. What would they do if some random stranger came up to them and started ranting about needing help?

Not react quickly enough to save him from being shot by Jungkook or Namjoon, Jin's pretty sure of that. Even Taehyung, with his special empathy implants, would probably take too long.

Both of his escorts are tenser in this closed setting, anyways. Somehow Jungkook manages to inch even closer to him than when they were walking, and Namjoon doesn't let the same amount of space grow between them as he leads the way through the lounge, deeper into the club. "Keep your head down," he mutters to Jin. "I don't want someone recognizing the sleeve."

Jin stops dead and hisses, “What do you mean, someone recognizing the sleeve?” Seconds later, as Namjoon regards him tight-lipped and silent, a horrified revelation stumbles into his mind. “You – I’m in – You put me in someone’s body _illegally?_ Someone who lives _here?_ ”

“Now’s not the time to get into the details, Seokjin,” Namjoon says from between clenched teeth.

“Not the time!” His voice leaps like it’s trying to high-five the ceiling. “Where is – who is – how –” It hadn’t even remotely occurred to him that they might have put him in a sleeve with an owner who wasn’t either dead or locked away or had moved on from this sleeve. He’d just – Meths took their sleeves from others if they took a fancy to one, sure, but that was an exception, not the rule. Most of them were lab-created, or, if biologically based and from parents, at least genetically enhanced. The point being that they were new, and not… He’d known this was a used sleeve, the impulses proved that, but he hadn’t thought that the previous user might still be around! Or their friends!

Namjoon must see the alarm taking over Jin and tilting precariously towards a full-blown meltdown, because he steps closers, grabs Jin’s arm. “Relax, okay? I promise, we’ll fill you in on everything, but not right now.”

He stares wildly into Namjoon’s dark eyes, and they feel like locked doors with bright OPEN signs above them. A lie and a disappointment. “Just tell me. Are they dead? The person who had this sleeve… Did you kill them?”

The fingers wrapped around Seokjin’s arm tighten to the point of pain, but the other man doesn’t look away. Doesn’t hesitate when he says, “No. They’re not dead. Even if they deserve to be. We’ll talk about the rest later.”

Seokjin is released and his captor turns away, leaving a throbbing ache in Jin’s arm and a colder hurt in his chest. He doesn’t know if Namjoon is lying to get him to go along with this. Is that why this body is so bruised and battered? Because whoever had worn it before ‘deserved’ it?

“Like I said,” Namjoon tacks on, voice cool, “just keep your head down. Don’t look at anyone for too long. I don’t even think he went here that often, only a few times.” He starts to move away. 

"A few times is a few times too many! Maybe you should have thought of that before?" Jin gripes, unmoving, sweat pouring down his back and making his shirt stick to his skin uncomfortably. The wary looks he darts at the club inhabitants don’t reveal anyone particularly interested, even despite his outburst, but he feels like a target’s been put on his back. "This face isn't exactly indiscrete. It practically begs for attention. You should have grabbed me a hat or something."

Jungkook shoves him in the back, the gun's barrel pressing a painful indent into his body, but that doesn't stop Jin from seeing the way Namjoon grimaces, his head falling, accepting the blame as yet another heavy burden.

The dance area is even emptier than the lounge, with only a few groups of people standing here and there, drinks in hand. The small cluster of booths off to the side are completely empty. A trio of girls are swaying slowly in the middle of the floor. They can't be dancing to the music – there's a quiet but fast electro-pop song playing in the background – and he can only assume by the relaxed way they move that they've been sampling some of the wares that the Ring offers. There's a bar at the back of the room that might sell such wares, a long counter with a bunch of stools manned by a sole crewman. He's not exactly the friendliest looking person Jin's ever seen, with a bristling black beard and eyebrows so thick they could have crawled down his chin and formed another beard. He’s also giving them a once over.

Apparently failing to notice those alarming traits, Namjoon heads straight for the counter. "Arven," he says warmly.

“Namjoon!” the bartender calls back, just as warmly. “If it isn’t the bulletproof boy. I didn’t think I’d see you again so soon.” When Jin moves to get closer, interested in spite of himself, Jungkook grabs his sweater, pulls him back with a warning look.

“They’re not talking about shit that concerns you, Meth,” Jungkook says. “Just some business deals. How ‘bout you just stand there and look good until they’re done? I bet you’re good at that.” The acerbic words sound a bit awkward, like the kid is trying them out for the first time, and after Jin stares at him for a few seconds, Jungkook flushes and looks away.

Jin mumbles, “I _am_ good at looking good,” and yanks his sweater out of the other's grasp. Still uncomfortable, he scans the room, observation skipping over several people before he freezes. One of the girls on the dance floor, a red head in a floral green summer dress, is watching him, her gaze glassy, and he smiles nervously before looking away.

“Uh, Jungkook?” he whispers. “I think that girl recognizes me.”

“No, she doesn’t know…” The strangled way his guard’s words die might have been funny, if the girl wasn’t making her way over.

“What do I do!?”

“Get her to go away!”

“How?”

Jungkook doesn’t come up with anything before the girl is in hearing range, and a quick look at his wide, panicked eyes makes Jin suspect it would have taken awhile, anyways.

"Hey, Siwoo," the pale girl breathes in an uncomfortably familiar way when she halts in front of them. Her eyes trail across his face, noting the cuts and bruises, but she makes no comment. Is it the norm for this sleeve, or just not something you talk about in public? "It’s so weird to run into you now."

Jin casts a pleading look at Jungkook, but the young man just edges closer, hand under his coat and definitely cradling his gun. Seokjin doesn’t dare turn around enough to see if Namjoon has noticed their interaction, but surely he won’t be shot? If he can just fumble around and pretend to be who he’s not? And if he can’t? Is he – or the girl – going to be killed just because he can’t act like a thug? The unbidden thought sets his teeth on edge, and Jin tries to pull his face into something tough and removed.

"Uh, hey," he says, wondering if she's high enough to miss any discrepancies in his mannerisms. Her expression is spacey enough to give him hope. "I had something to pick up nearby, and I, uh, figured this place had a nice ring to it, you know? Hahaha." Her delicate brows furrow, button nose scrunching, and he thinks that maybe Siwoo doesn't use puns too often. Or maybe it was the way his laugh had spiked seventy octaves, nerves punting it up like a pro-kicker over a goalpost.

Before Jin can devolve into panic too much more, the perplexed expression dissolves, replaced by a knowing smile. "You picked up some of the new stuff from Kali, huh? Bet it's got you going." She steps closer, looking back at her friends suggestively. "If you shared some with us, I bet we could really _keep_ you going, Siwoo."

"Ahaha..." His cheeks flaming red, Jin wonders if spontaneously combusting would destroy his stack, or just this sleeve. He also wonders what kind of guy Siwoo is, that girls are willing to make that kind of suggestion, and so boldly, too. The thought does nothing for his embarrassment. "I, uh, can't. Not this time. I’m meeting with, uh…"

A stroke of genius hits, sweeping away most of the mortification. Namjoon said that whoever this body belonged too, he deserved to be dead. Who else could that be, than one of the gang members targeting Namjoon’s group? If that were true… If this girl knows Siwoo, then maybe she knows something about that, too. And if he can find it out…

Jin slaps his forehead, thickens his voice further like he’s seriously intoxicated. “Damn… You know the one. He’s the guy who…” Jin leans closer, pitches his voice lower. “Well, you heard about that Meth that got murdered the other night? It’s the guy who offed him.”

She jerks back, alarmed even in her haze, and gives Jungkook a wary once over. Her voice lowers to a hiss. “Keep your voice down, Siwoo. Fuck, you’ve had too much if you’re talking about David. ‘Sides, that’s your guys’ business, not mine.”

“Yeah, yeah, David, sorry.” He tries to wave an airy hand, but it’s shaking too hard, so he runs it through his hair instead. The motion doesn’t do much to soothe his racing thoughts. “This shit I’m trying is just, uh, really heavy.” She nods slowly, but Jin doesn’t think she’s quite convinced. He tries a different tactic. “Actually, honestly, I’m just kind of pissed off. I heard David got a bunch of creds or something from getting that guy, and he isn’t sharing it with me. But I still gotta grab shit for him?”

As he hoped, the promise of gossip eases her a little, even as a confused frown slopes her mouth. “I heard it was a lot, too. Something big or something, everyone up top was freaking out. Someone said Rafa _smiled_ when he heard. It’s weird he wouldn’t share, when I heard you’re the one who helped him out.” Jungkook moves, a sudden twitch, and she eyes him again. Jin could have kicked him in the shin. Abruptly losing interest, the girl shrugs. “Like I said, it’s not my business. Besides, you never introduced me to your… friend?” Jin stiffly nods. “Who is he? Have I seen you before?” That to Jungkook directly, and with her attention diverted, Jin is free to look at his guard, too.

He hadn’t realized it before, too engrossed in the pretence, but Jungkook might very well be having a heart attack. The kid is shaking and sweating, pink staining every visible patch of skin, and his head is ducked so low his chin might as well be fused to his throat. Jungkook stutters something that’s completely incomprehensible, before clearing his throat. In a very small voice, he says, “Probably. You probably saw me. I – I’ve been here before.”

Such a novel experience as his captor floundering should really be enjoyed, and Jin is spitefully ready to sit back and let Jungkook continue to struggle. It seems no more than justice. 

Unfortunately, impatient or too drugged to hold on to a train of thought, the girl shrugs again, not even interested enough to get a name. “Alright. Anyways, Siwoo, are you going to the Meth party? I’ve never been to one and I hear it's going to be wild! Some of the other girls were invited last week, but since that Meth got messed up, not many of you guys are coming here to throw around party invitations. So far none of you assholes have asked me to go. Plus I doubt any Meths are gonna be sending out invites, either."

The girl is definitely working another angle, and Jin blinks rapidly, trying to keep up with the information. "The party? Uh, I haven't decided yet. It's... when is it again?"

"Christ, Siwoo, maybe you should lay off the stuff for awhile. I heard everyone from your group is invited. It's, what, a few months from now? Remember? If you feel like going, you should hit me up; I want a pass."

"A pass?"

"Duh. Not like the Meths are gonna let just anyone stroll into Glass Harbour, especially not at a party like that." The redhead rolls her eyes. “Can’t have people like us dragging in mud, right? I want to –” One of the girls still on the dancefloor calls out a name, Natasha, and she glances back. Her friends make beckoning gestures. Natasha waves at them and looks ruefully at Jin. “My friends are calling. I’ll see you later, okay? Anytime. Hope stuff works out with you and David… And seriously, let me know if you’re going? Or if you just want to hang out…” She trails away without another look at either of them.

Beside him, Jungkook inhales violently. Within a few seconds Namjoon arrives at their side, face calm but eyes demanding as they turn to Jungkook. The brown-haired man hurriedly says, “I think it’s fine. She’s a friend or something, not someone that knows this asshole is missing.”

“And Seokjin didn’t…” Try to clue her in, Jin assumes Namjoon is asking. He lifts his chin, outraged by the question.

“No,” Jungkook replies, “nothing like that. Actually, he – I think he pretty much fooled her.” His tone could not have been more grudging if he’d made a concerted effort, though before Jin can smile at the faint praise, Jungkook cuts that pretty short. “She was so high I think a pole with a face stuck on it might have fooled her, though.”

“Hey! I’ll have you know that while Jungkook was imitating the pole he just mentioned, I was finding out things! A lot of help you were, by the way,” Jin adds with a sour look at Jungkook. Yeah, he definitely prefers the kid flushing in embarrassment instead of wearing a smug grin. At least the former is cute instead of insufferable.

Namjoon forestalls anything either of them might have added. “You can tell me about it when we leave. I talked to Arven, mostly business, but I asked him about the murder, too.” As Jin begins to frown at that information, he continues. “Not about you specifically, just in an indirect way. He didn’t know much about it. Said something about an unusual amount of Meths coming here, and not just thirteenth sons and daughters, either, but even a few heads of houses.”

He looks so excited by the news that Jin feels a little bad to let him down. “That’s not that weird. There are trends, right? Ringwanderung has been gathering popularity for awhile now; it’s not odd that some of the heavy weights would eventually stop by. It’ll be a thing for a bit – maybe a while longer than usual, since I got, uh, since I died – and they’ll move on to other things.”

The way Namjoon’s shoulders slump is distracting enough for Jin to ignore Jungkook’s comment about flighty bastards. Hands hovering and waving awkwardly, Seokjin says, “Well, it might be important. Maybe it’s not a coincidence that I got hurt just when they started coming here.” It’s definitely a coincidence, so far as he’s concerned, but it’s nice to see the gang leader take a deep breath and straighten a little.

“Okay. Well – we’ll figure it out. I’m guessing being here hasn’t struck anything in your memory?”

Jin looks around the Ring. He remembers it well enough, but just from night and weekend sprees, hazy and splotched with drugs and alcohol. There’s nothing immediate about the memories, nothing that says he’s about to stumble onto a massive revelation. Hesitantly, wanting to give it his best try, he spends a few minutes wandering around, his two captors tailing him, but by the time they circle back to the dancefloor, he hasn’t found anything. He doesn’t really want to go downstairs, either, not with this company. After a few more silent seconds of observation, he shakes his head.

His companion sighs, but less heavily than the last time. “It’s time for us to go, then. This was a long shot, anyways, and the less time you’re in the open, the better.” When he gestures, Jin precedes him out of the dance area, leaving the pop music behind, with Jungkook trailing them both.

They enter into the lounge again, soft lights a distinct change from the darker illumination of the dancefloor, the private conversations a pleasant background noise. Jin tunes them out; he’s attempting to calculate what else he has to offer, since this trip has been essentially a bust. Was the Meth party significant? Who was hosting it? He can’t remember being invited to one recently, but that could be his amnesia in general, or maybe he just wasn’t friends or acquaintances with the host. The latter was admittedly much less likely – there weren’t all that many Meths, especially ones influential enough to host parties that normies could be invited to – but if the whole gang was invited, that had to be important, right? Only, what could it mean? What…

“Ah, we’re gonna find something tonight! I can feel it!”

“Sir, it’s barely the evening and we just got here. Besides, we’ve been here so many times in the last few days. What makes today different?”

“It’s a feeling! I’m absolutely positive _someone_ here knows _something_.”

“…sir, you’ve tried already… Why don’t we just go home…?”

Jin’s concentrating so hard that it takes him a moment to realize that he knows both of the voices coming from a cluster of couches not far from them. When he gawks in that direction, he definitely recognizes the tousled head of dark brown hair just visible above the chair’s back.

A surge of relief hits him, thunderous comfort resonating through his nerves, so powerful that he stops dead and feels tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. Without conscious decision, the name bursts from him, as natural as his own. “Taehyung!”

The gun that’s suddenly jammed against his spine, hard enough to make his mouth tighten in pain, is expected. After all, even as the word had left his lips, he’d regretted it, had wanted to pull it back and give himself time to think instead of showing his hand so early. He’d expected the consequences.

But he doesn’t expect the glacier cold voice that issues from behind him to belong to Namjoon.

“Put your head down, now,” demands the voice he hardly recognizes, and even as Taehyung stands up from the couch and turns their way, Seokjin complies, sets his stinging eyes on the red carpet at their feet. Namjoon snatches his arm, bodily forces him to sidestep away, and Jungkook casually paces in front of them, blocking Tae’s line of sight. “You say anything, you even breathe wrong, and you die. So does your friend,” Namjoon says quietly, his perfect enunciation of each word somehow more frightening than if he’d been shouting.

“What is it, sir?” asks Taehyung’s companion, and Jin knows it’s Drayton, the Kim family’s personal driver. Probably here to drag the man home on his father’s orders, but roped into whatever TaeTae is doing.

When Taehyung replies, he sounds miffed. “I thought I heard my name.”

“Really? I don’t think I…”

_You did,_ Seokjin wants to scream, and he wants to cry too, because God, he’s been so alone, and Taehyung is _right there._ But a new terror is puncturing his lungs, making it hard to breathe, and this jagged fear has nothing to do with the pistol pressing into his back. It has to do with Taehyung’s curious, clever eyes, and the way he sees things that sometimes he shouldn’t, and the way he wants to help when he shouldn’t, too.

If Namjoon had been just a little slower – if Jin had been just a little louder – his friend would have seen him, maybe even recognized him. And Jin would have had just enough time to see something like bewildered joy bloom across Taehyung’s face before Taehyung, one of the best people he knows, was shot to death, and who cared if it was just a sleeve death? Jin is walking proof that the experience is a horrible one. And the possibility hadn’t even occurred to him until after the fact.

The thought makes him nauseous, literally nauseous, and Namjoon practically has to drag him through the lounge and outside. The air’s still stifling despite being outdoors, and when Seokjin looks up all he can see is buildings and grey haze. No sky to speak of. Yet somehow the rush of people is still present, going through their day as if they don’t have an ashen weight over their heads. It’s smothering and does nothing for the frenetic pounding in his chest or the queasiness in Jin’s stomach.

A harsh shove by Namjoon sets him into a stumbling walk, the gun falling away with his captors hemming him in on either side. After a few blocks, the pink-haired man asks tersely, “Do you think we’re being followed?”

Jungkook says, “I haven’t seen anyone. No… I don’t think so.” There’s a beat of silence between the three of them that’s so profound it almost blocks out the sounds of street traffic, the noisy chatter of the people they’re flowing through. Jungkook breaks it. “We shouldn’t have brought him. Or we should have made sure we had control of him. We shouldn’t –”

“I know, Jungkook. I _know_.”

Silence again, deep and miserable and difficult to walk in. Jin doesn’t know what to do, what to say. The constant fear that’s been lapping at his feet or swamping over his head is proving too much; his lips and fingertips are tingling, but Seokjin is numb to everything else. His feet slog through a sticky puddle of someone’s discarded drink without pause, and the clang of his foot hitting the mostly empty can doesn’t even make him glance down. It’s hard enough to just keep his legs moving.

They cover several more streets before Jungkook says, small and unhappy, “Sorry, hyung. I should have kept a closer watch, anyways. I got… distracted.”

“…Nah. S’not your fault. Just bad luck or something. Maybe we’re cursed.” It’s a joke that falls so flat it’s almost 2D, and when Jin’s eyes drift over to Namjoon’s tight face, the man doesn’t really look like he’s joking, anyways.

They’re off the main road now, passing through an industrial zone with cars lining both sides of the street, but few people are in sight among the clusters of squat, stained buildings. Jungkook kicks at the chain link fence they’re walking next to, making it rattle. “It’s not bad luck. It’s him. Why’d you have to go do something stupid like that, huh?” he abruptly demands of Jin.

Jin, grateful to be more or less ignored until now, hesitates to answer. Jungkook’s question isn’t even that mean, more frustrated than anything, but Seokjin can’t tear his gaze from the cracked pavement they’re walking over. Truth is, he’s been wondering the same thing himself. Had he really almost gotten Taehyung killed? All for – what? A second of relief that he wasn’t the only one in this horrible situation? He’d already concluded that no one could help, at least not quickly enough, but he’d called for his friend despite that.

What does that make him?

Once again, Namjoon intercedes on his behalf. Sort of. “It doesn’t matter now, Kookie. We got out without anyone important catching on. All’s well that ends well. A fairy-tale finish.” The bitterness is absolutely impossible to miss by the end, but when Jin risks a look, Namjoon isn’t directing the vitriol towards him. He’s wearing an indrawn expression, fine brows caving together, and Jin doesn’t think it’s the encounter with Taehyung that has him so upset. Or at least, that’s not the only thing.

Namjoon catches him watching, however, and his brows draw down even more. “Jungkook’s right, though. It was stupid. What did you think would happen?”

He waits to feel the sharp prick of defensiveness, but it doesn’t come. “I… I didn’t really think, it just… came out.”

The ice that was in Namjoon’s tone before has crept into his eyes when he says, “Next time – if there’s a next time – you _have_ to think. Because I know this situation sucks, but I’m not risking my crew for a Meth who puts his mouth before his head again. Next time…”

“I get shot. I die. Yeah, I get it.” And he does. He really kind of does. So much so that it does nothing to the leaden mass sunk into every atom of his body.

The tight hollowness in his throat is only growing, a gaping emptiness that’s threatening to climb into his head and plummet into his chest. There’s regret, sure, regret for saying anything, regret for not saying enough, regret that he’s here at all, but the fear is a wrung-out towel, strangled and nearly dry. All Jin wants is to be somewhere else. It’s hard to look away from both Jungkook and Namjoon, since they’re on either side, so once again his gaze finds the ground.

Which is why Jin completely misses the woman, dressed in dark clothes with a black face mask, who suddenly steps out from behind one of the cars ahead of them. There’s a gun clutched in her hand. He misses the way she lifts up the weapon and aims – right at Jin.

He doesn’t miss the _crack_ of the gun going off, though.


	5. Chapter 5

Before he’s even aware of the sound of the shot – maybe even before the sound is made – Jin is flying. Almost literally. Someone hip checks him so hard that his feet, not firmly planted to begin with, leave the ground, and as he falls, he crashes into Namjoon, sending them both sprawling off the sidewalk. They land in the road in a tangle of limbs, groans and (in Namjoon’s case) curses. Several more shots ring out, Jin’s brain too slow on the uptake to do anything more than cringe and sort of hug the ground, expecting to feel the impact of a bullet at any second.

Jungkook is not so slow.

After he’d shoved Seokjin out of the way, he’d drawn his own weapon and started firing at the woman, as well as several other people who’ve swarmed out from the cars they’d hidden behind. Now, as Seokjin clings for dear life to the pavement, blood thundering in his ears and eyes wildly scouring the street, he finds his mouth falling open. Two bodies have already joined Namjoon and Jin on the pavement, slumped figures that move only feebly, and even as Jin lifts his head a bit more, Jungkook finds another mark and she joins her companions on the ground, clutching at her shoulder. Jin thinks she might be screaming – her mouth is open – but all he can hear is his own stampeding heartbeat and an occasional popping noise that must be the guns firing.

It adds to the air of unrealism, but Jungkook is the main focus of this nightmare. So fast his hands blur, he changes out a cartridge and keeps shooting, seamless and assured. He’s already moved to set himself between Namjoon and the attackers, though the position isn’t as deadly as it would have been even a few seconds prior. Jungkook’s rapid and accurate aim has forced their enemies to take cover behind cars, abandoning their three comrades where they fell. The trio don’t last long; with cool precision, Jungkook takes an extra moment and shoots all three in the heads before resuming firing at anyone who dares to show any part of their body from behind their shields.

He had suspected Jungkook was harboring neurochems and some variety of physical enhancements – he just moved too fluidly to be entirely natural – but the unadulterated violence of the other man has Jin transfixed and shaking. There’s blood on the ground by the bodies, blood and – other things – and a part of him is trying to remember that it’s sleeves – just sleeves – that were destroyed so casually. That part is dim and very far away. Was this how his own murderer had killed him, as easily as tapping a button, and with as much concern?

The violence drops to a simmer as quickly as it flared up, the flurry of bullets slowing, and Jin’s hearing returns only when Namjoon grabs him by both shoulders and shakes him. “Seokjin! Snap out of it! Damn it, can you hear me?”

He takes in the other’s excruciatingly tense expression with a befuddled stare, and his eyes widen when he realizes they’re not in the center of the street anymore but huddled against a vehicle. Namjoon must have dragged him here, but he hadn’t even… With a tremendous effort, Seokjin shakes his head, chasing away the fogged paralyses wrapping his appendages and brain in cotton, unsure what to feel about Namjoon risking life and limb to get him to the shelter. “Yeah,” he gasps, “yeah, I hear you. What do we do?”

“Keep your head low. You see that dumpster?” Namjoon uses the hand not holding his own gun to point out a green behemoth of a dumpster a few meters behind them, set at the mouth of an alley between two of the industrial buildings. “Get behind it.” 

“Namjoon, there’s someone going around the cars on the far side,” Jungkook calls, his warning followed closely by two quick bangs as he fires at whoever it is. “I can’t get them, not with those assholes still up the street.”

It takes a moment to understand what Jungkook means, though Jin gets it eventually. If he turns to follow the movement of the person darting along the side, the assailants in front will have time to get out of cover and shoot; it’s only Jungkook’s constant vigilance that’s keeping them pinned down.

Appallingly steady, like they’re just having a normal conversation, Namjoon replies, “I’ve got him. I’ll – Seokjin, get behind that dumpster before you get yourself killed. I’ll cover you, Jungkook.”

Doing as he’s bid takes a courage all its own; moving from even this pitiful shelter feels like inviting a spotlight to fall on him, with a ‘shoot me’ sign put up for good measure. But Jin can’t just sit there. Who knew what would happen if he got killed again? Best case scenario, his stack would be ransomed back to his parents, but that’s a very best case, and besides, his parents hadn’t put him back in a sleeve the first time, had they? What if it’s the same the next time around? The best case wouldn’t really be best case then, would it?

Better to stick with the pink haired devil he knows.

Clenching his teeth, he psyches himself up for a heartbeat more before flinging himself into a running crouch. Almost immediately several gunshots ring out and Jin is pretty sure he’s not imagining the crack of bullets whipping by. As he tumbles behind the protection of the metal bulk, he definitely doesn’t imagine the chorus of voices shouting, “It’s him, he’s there!” Even more bullets come his way – one hits into the dumpster with a tortured scream of metal – but Jungkook makes the shooters pay for the attempt if a pained yell is anything to go by.

Did that mean these psychopaths were trying to get him specifically? And was ‘him’ Seokjin, or were they after Siwoo for some reason? And how’d they know who he was, where they would be? Could that girl from the club have told someone, not anywhere near as fooled as he’d thought she’d been? Gasping for breath, his back pressed into the reassuring hardness of the dumpster, Jin can’t get his scattered thoughts together enough to figure out what any of it means. Not being able to see what’s going on just fuels his hammering heart, but he’s not stupid enough to think that sticking his head out is a good idea.

Except for the person still screaming in pain, it’s gone very quiet.

Had Namjoon already shot the person trying to flank them? Or had he been shot himself? Could that be why he and Jungkook aren’t talking to each other? What if Namjoon’s dead?

The thought sets him to trembling, violent shudders that wrack his body for a reason he’s not anywhere near calm enough to identify. No matter how fast or hard he blinks, Seokjin can’t seem to clear away the picture of rivulets of red streaming from the heads of those people Jungkook killed. He can’t stop himself from imagining Namjoon in exactly the same position, slumped over, hair tinged a colour far less innocent than peach, the exit wound a gaping hole that’s there because Seokjin couldn’t move fast enough.

An unfamiliar voice rips through the macabre picture, tearing Jin’s focus back to reality. “You fuckers are fucking dead, you hear me? Fucking dead!”

“Not as dead as your friends,” Jungkook yells back, and Seokjin can almost picture the maddening grin he’s probably wearing. It helps, too, because he instinctively knows the boy wouldn’t say something like that if Namjoon had been shot.

His intuition proves correct. Namjoon joins the yelling contest a moment later, louder than the string of swears Jungkook’s comment elicited. “You’ve already lost too many people, whoever the hell you are. Why don’t you just walk away? It’s not gonna get any easier from here.”

There’s a pause, and stupid or not, Jin can’t bear the laden tension anymore. He peeks around the dumpster. It takes him a while to locate everyone. The few pedestrians who he could have sworn were around before have up and vanished. Namjoon and Jungkook have moved closer to his hiding spot, Jungkook on his side of the street, Namjoon on the other. From this angle he can just make out a few people, muffled under hoodies, crouched on the sidewalk. If he’d had a gun, he might have been able to pick one or two of them off (but probably not). It’s impossible to tell how many there are. And unless he’s very much mistaken, they’re on both sides of the streets now, using the cars as cover to creep closer.

The closest one, just a few cars from where Namjoon is crouched, trusts the vehicle’s protective abilities too much. He moves away from the front area of the car he’s cowering behind, probably intending to move one more car down, and Jin sees Junkook’s head snap to the movement. A second later and the gun follows, sending five or six bullets across the street to shred through the vehicle’s doors. At least one finds its target, because there’s a sharp yelp and the man collapses, writhing on the sidewalk.

It’d be easy for Namjoon or Jungkook to take him out. Seemingly following that train of thought, the former shifts, about to lean around the car he’s behind.

The same voice from before makes him pause. “Hold up! You’re right it ain’t gonna get easier, but that’s for you, not us. We got all fucking day to drown you assholes out.” A beat. “But maybe we don’t wanna go to the bother of getting new sleeves. Maybe we’re feeling generous. I got a deal for you. You give us Seokjin, and you walk away. Don’t, and I’m going to crush your fucking stacks myself. We know he was at the Ring, that he’s with you now. You really feel like facing Real Death for some prick of a Meth?”

Jungkook looks towards Namjoon, just a twitch of distraction, and his leader doesn’t immediately reply. He’s facing Jin’s hiding spot, eyes slightly narrowed, and Seokjin can only stare at him helplessly, heart in his throat. He doesn’t have a weapon, nothing to defend himself with, no bargaining chip to offer. Namjoon’s goodwill – and, realistically, Seokjin’s usefulness to Namjoon’s group – are his only shields, flimsy though they are. And they are flimsy. First the failure to find anything useful at the Ring, and then, what had Namjoon said? _I’m not risking my crew for a Meth…_

Right. So, he’s screwed.

“We can’t give him up.” Given that the hissed objection comes from Jungkook, Jin could not have been more surprised if God Himself had spoken from Heaven. Even Namjoon looks taken aback. The muscular gunman shifts his weight restlessly, eyes never leaving their scanning track across the road. “We can’t just let them beat on us like this,” he adds, not able to whisper because of Namjoon’s distance, but attempting to keep his voice low, nonetheless. “They’ll expect us to roll over like dogs all the time.”

He sounds disgusted at the prospect of losing, and for all that Jin feels a sudden rush of warmth towards the kid, he can’t help but think that competitiveness isn’t going to be enough to persuade Namjoon. A moment later, though, gaze still skimming the street, Jungkook says flatly, “Besides, they just sent a few people down the side streets further down. They’re probably gonna go around the block and come up behind us.”

Automatically Jin turns, checking their backs; the street is utterly deserted, for the moment. It makes him wonder, fleetingly, where the few civilians he’d seen before have gone (hopefully to call the police), but Namjoon pulls his attention back.

“He’s stalling, huh? I guess it was too much to expect this trash to be honest.” Namjoon shifts, pulls his green camo coat open and seems to be searching for something. “I’ve got two magazines left. You?”

“One.”

Namjoon tosses one of his black cases to Jungkook, who catches it deftly. The pink haired man is wearing a strange expression; he’s smiling, a thin, lopsided quirk of his lips, but when his gaze goes to Jungkook, his eyes are wretched. The sharp regret doesn’t change when they shift briefly to Jin, though Jin had been expecting rage, or at the least accusation. Maybe that wouldn’t have been fair – it’s not like he chose to be here, or at the Ring – but it wouldn’t have been surprising. However, when their eyes meet, Namjoon’s bloodless face suddenly flushes a bit, and he mouths something that Seokjin can’t catch from so far away.

It might have been sorry, but probably not.

Probably not, but Jin still finds himself saying, “I’ll watch your backs. If someone comes, you’ll know.”

He can only shrug at their surprise. At this point, he’s pretty sure that their funeral is going to be his funeral, too. Might as well do what he can. Besides, if they can hold out long enough… “Maybe the police are on their way.”

That’s more to himself than to Jungkook, but the other male shakes his head anyways. “Or maybe those assholes asked their Meth friends to call in a favour, and there are no cops around at all.”

“…You never learned about the power of positive thinking, did you?”

“Sorry, sir. They only teach that in Meth kindergarten,” Jungkook replies, smiling faintly. After a moment, though, even that falls away, like he’s lost the strength to keep it there. Quietly, so quietly Jin knows he’s not really meant to hear, Jungkook mumbles, “Wish Yoongi were here. Guess it’s good he’s not.”

For whatever reason, that makes the young man straighten a little, his shoulders squaring, and he calls to Namjoon. “I’m ready, hyung. Guess now’s as good a time as any to make up for that car thing.”

The leader, too, has stiffened his resolve. “You’ve got nothing to make up for, Jungkook. Even if you did, that tab’s going to stay open for a bit longer. We’re going to get out of here.” He even manages to make it sound like he believes it.

“Yeah, hyung, sure… I think they’re getting ready to rush us. Guess they figured out we’re not buying.” Jungkook’s voice is as steady as his hands, unshaking as they raise his pistol a little higher.

The both of them, ducked behind their respective vehicles, somehow manage to make it seem like they’re waiting for a boring game of hide-and-seek to end, not staring down a barrel pointed unerringly at their stacks. Seokjin turns back to fulfill his part of this little pageant, squinting down the street and ready to shout, yet his shoulders are trembling and pressing them hard against the dumpster can only do so much to still them. His eyes are welling with tears, too, and angrily Jin brushes them clear. He’s not even that afraid, because he’s pretty much used up his fear and adrenaline for today. But it’s a real pity to die for the second time in a week, beneath this ugly grey sky, along with two strangers who may or may not deserve it for kidnapping him. He wants to be angry at them for dragging him into this, but the blunt knives buried in his chest are made of grief and not rage.

Jin’s just so tired; spitting fury into the void he’s facing is too much effort. _I hope Taehyung doesn’t hear about me dying again,_ he thinks dully. Taehyung is probably the only one in his life who would bother mourning him twice. His family would certainly have done so the first time, sincere in their sorrow, but emotion is just as much a resource as anything. They’d be too practical to grieve a second time, at least with the same depth.

There’s a flicker of movement far, far down the street where Seokjin’s facing. “Someone’s–” He stops, has to cough several times to dislodge the hoarseness in his throat, “Someone’s coming.” Now more than ever, he wishes he had a gun, or a knife, or anything, really. Not that it would make a difference – Seokjin’s not one of the children his parents take to the shooting range, not after the first few mediocre showings – but it would be nice to have something _._ Just so that he could pretend for a little longer that he has a chance, that maybe he could help the men preparing to die for him have a chance, too.

The figure is moving closer, pretty much in the middle of the street, as bold as you please, and Jin just guesses they’re that confident in their fellow gang members. Personally, he wouldn’t be, not after the show Jungkook had put on, but maybe these thugs just didn’t care if their sleeves got killed. If some Meth were going to give him a new body after he died, maybe he wouldn’t care either. Although…

His eyes narrow. The person approaching from his side is _weaving_. Not in the better-dart-around-to-make-it-harder-to-shoot-me manner, but in the stumbling-drunk-and-finding-it-hard-to-walk kind of way. He tips first to one side, then to the other, feet dragging and catching on the pavement, and it seems miraculous that he doesn’t drop each time. And actually… hadn’t he come from too many streets down? Wouldn’t the gangsters have cut through a road that was closer, so they didn’t have to be in the open for so long? And why hasn’t Jungkook shot this sucker yet?

At about the same time all of those questions are falling into a startled realization, three more people appear in Jin’s field of vision, closer than the other man. They’re definitely part of the attackers; they’re wearing the same hoodies and face masks, and they’re utterly intent on Jin’s side of the street. He doesn’t even think they see the other guy, and if they do, they ignore him and start inching down the road. Part of him wants to run, maybe down the alley on his left side, even if it just leads to a dead end. That would make it that much easier for their assailants to focus solely on taking out Namjoon and Jungkook, though. The least he can do is offer another target to distract their focus and their bullets.

He might not offer even that for long. One of the three is gesturing excitedly, clearly having realized who he is, and a second later the others raise their guns. Jin can’t help it. He shuts his eyes, throat clogged with the warning he should be giving, and braces himself, an eerie feeling of déjà vu resounding through his very marrow, deep and sickening.

And he waits. And waits. And later – he couldn’t have said how much later – three shots ring out. Just three. None of them sound anywhere close to him.

When Jin opens his eyes, he’s greeted by three bodies on the road and the same man from before walking by them. There’s panicked shouting going on behind his dumpster, further down the street, so much shouting that even though he thinks Namjoon and Jungkook are talking, he can’t tell what they’re saying. A series of sharp reports crack the tension like a bone breaking, and suddenly the air is filled with the staccato noise of gunfire. The man approaching him doesn’t seem bothered. He doesn’t even pause, just keeps walking, and there’s still some of that staggering gait in his movements, like he’s forgotten how to take steps and has to remember each time.

This close, the black police uniform is starkly obvious, and so is the blueish grey revolver the man has clasped loosely at his side. There’s nothing personal about the relief Seokjin feels – nothing like the comfort he’d experienced upon seeing Taehyung – but the searing release of pressure is utterly welcome, all the same. His first thought is perilously close to thanking God, even though he’s never been very interested in his parents’ religion.

His second thought is about how funny Jungkook’s face is going to be when he realizes there was at least one cop around.

The police officer finally makes it to him, although he doesn’t pause for long. He’s a wiry individual with a sweep of black bangs that almost touch his eyes, but it’s his smile that’s most eye catching. His grin is one of the largest and most cheerful things that Jin has ever seen, a sunny beam set with casual brilliance on the man’s heart shaped face, and in another situation, it also would have been one of the most uplifting things he’s ever seen, too.

Given that they are currently being shot at (did Jin see a bullet fling by the cop’s head or was he imagining things?) the grin is kind of scary. So is the look in the guy’s eyes, painfully bright and intent, like an operating table light. It’s a stark contrast to his smile.

“Please stay down,” the officer says, the words leaping extremely quickly from his mouth, and it kind of seems like he’s not really seeing Jin. “This will be over shortly.” Another screech as a bullet grazes the dumpster underlines his assertion.

He moves out of view, and more _bangs_ assault Jin’s ringing ears. This time around, his courage and curiosity both fail him; he stays firmly put, refusing the urge to peek out from his cover. Besides, before much time has passed, he can hear Jungkook swearing, but it’s soft amazement and not anger that’s saturating his voice. The shots dwindle until there’s only one or two going off every few seconds, and moments later even that dies.

“They’re gone, Kwanghyun. You can come out.” That’s Namjoon, but Jin stays where he is, his brows furrowing. Who was Kwanghyun? The police officer?

Namjoon’s shadow falls over him and Jin looks up with a small, relieved smile. The other man’s face is just as drained of colour as before, and there’s a line of tension in his jaw that’s entirely inappropriate given that none of them died. “They’re gone, Kwanghyun,” Namjoon repeats, putting extra emphasis on the name. “Get up.”

Jin stares at him blankly for a moment before his brain catches up. His tentative smile dies. Oh. Right. He can’t be Seokjin in front of an officer. Seokjin was taken from his safe haven at the police station by Namjoon and the rest of his crew.

Embarrassed by how slow he was on the uptake, embarrassed by the tight knot of disappointment in his throat, Jin drops his gaze and starts to rise. Without him being aware of it, his legs have gone numb from his awkward positioning, and it’s a struggle to straighten with his knees threatening to buckle. Suddenly Namjoon hooks a hand under Jin’s elbow and helps him up. His hand remains there, and Seokjin unexpectedly finds himself desperate to believe that the warm support is just out of kindness.

Given the tightness of the hold, however, and the way Namjoon hasn’t put his weapon away, he can’t quite push himself into embracing the achingly appealing fantasy.

They walk out from behind the dumpster, Jin moving like a tottering old man. This sleeve is in shape, but even it can’t quite handle being compressed into a terror-induced crouch for such a long period of time. As the pins and needles jab at his legs, injecting feeling back in the most painful way possible, Jin lets his capturer tow him along. Once again, he’s faced with a question of what to do, and if anything, it’s harder to decide now than it was back at Ringwanderung.

There are bodies scattered across the street, for all the world looking like toys knocked over by some overenthusiastic toddler. None are moving, and the holes ripped into their heads or chests or throats are more than enough evidence for why. He finds himself having to breathe between his teeth and it’s a struggle to tear his gaze away from the bloody scene.

The police officer is speaking into his interface watch as they approach. “Yeah, I count fourteen – fourteen sleeves down. Don’t think any stacks are damaged. Yeah, fourteen. Yeah, I – it’s fourteen, you can all count that high. Make sure – you have to bring Organic Damage with you. I want – what? No, I didn’t get them all myself. Even my sleeve’s not that good.” He laughs, and the sound is… off. Hoarse and too fast. “Anyways, anyways, several ran off, so you need to get patrols down here… I don’t know why there aren’t any around now, it’s a bloody clusterfuck. I want Jaemin prepped to help one of you in interrogation. No, no, I’m not going to do it. I’m not – I’m off the clock, Tanesha, I’m not…”

More is said, but Jin’s having trouble focusing. Namjoon’s grip on his arm is too tight, starting to pass from pain into numbness, as though the sensation just traded its spot from his legs. He’s watching his captors from the corner of his eyes, just about as intensely as they’re watching both him and the cop. It’s dawning on him that this officer saving their lives doesn’t mean the same thing for them as it does for him. Jungkook’s gnawing at his lip, looking less composed now than when there’d been bullets flying, and while Namjoon is more collected, he’s not much more so.

He can’t tell what they’re thinking. Jin doesn’t know if he should care. What would happen if he just blurted out the truth, right here and now? To judge by the gangsters’ reactions and the numerous out of commission sleeves, this man can handle himself. Far better than Taehyung could, anyways. And he’s a police officer! His very _life_ is supposed to be dedicated to protecting people. Wouldn’t he be far better equipped to handle this mess than Jin, too? There’s an overwhelming urge to just dump the situation into his lap, just to see what happens, just to relieve the tension.

Only… He’d saved Jin’s life already, there’s no doubt about that. And while he seems utterly relaxed, his gun slipped into its holster, both Namjoon and Jungkook are so on edge they look like they might just shoot the guy without Jin saying anything at all. What kind of payment would that be, setting them off on his saviour? And just after he’d almost done the same thing to Taehyung?

The officer finishes his conversation rather abruptly; if Seokjin didn’t know better, he might have thought he’d hung up on whoever he was talking to. This close up, he doesn’t look great. His face is shiny with sweat, black hair plastered to his forehead, and the dark circles under his eyes are so prominent his irises look about as black as his hair. The smile from before, unusual as it had been, is gone, replaced by a sharp, triangular frown.

That just makes Jin feel worse about the thought of bringing him into this situation. And as bad as he feels, he still needs to bite his tongue to keep it from going rogue and voicing a desperate attempt at escape. If he was smarter, or maybe just less tired, he might have tried to think of some coded way of asking for help, a secret phrase or a special look, but casting through his head right now is like scavenging through a swamp. There’s plenty of things there, half-formed and half-seen and covered in slick mud, but nothing Seokjin can get a confident grip on.

Besides, Jimin implied that some if not all of the police are in the pay of whatever Meth set his murder up. How can he tell if this man is one of those? Should he just blindly run to a person who could sign his Real Death warrant?

Indecision is a poison, slinking through his veins, paralyzing his muscles and tongue. In the end, Jin elects to do nothing – not because it seems like the best thing to do, but because doing anything else is more nerve-wracking than he presently has the strength to bear.

“Sorry about that,” the officer says, finally turning to them, and once again Jin has the impression that he’s not really looking at them. Or maybe that he’s only seeing exactly what he wants to see. “Ah, first, I need to ask… to…” He stops, confusion passing like a cloud over his expression. “I… can’t remember…” he mutters, and as he says it one of his legs suddenly spasms, a series of twitches and jerks that he doesn’t seem to notice.

Before it fully passes, the cop’s uncertainty evaporates, and his eyes are abruptly keen again, too sharp, almost sterile. “I’m Jung Hoseok, of the Thorton precinct.” Thorton, the official name for the Curve that no one ever uses except on paper. Jin is faintly surprised that this hellhole even has a precinct.

“Officer,” Namjoon replies, and at least he’s working on erasing the hostility from his face; Jungkook’s still got his chin belligerently lifted, and if Jin didn’t know better, he’d say the young man is a bit afraid. Jungkook lets Namjoon take the lead, though. “I’m Kim Doyoon. This is Jung Minjae… and he’s Lee Kwanghyun.” He says the list smoothly, and either he’s really good at making things up on the spot, or he’s got a few names memorized already.

From what he knows about Namjoon’s deliberate personality, probably the latter, but neither is bulletproof. What if the officer asks to scan their IDs?

He doesn’t, which seems very strange to Jin, but then again, this guy’s been acting strangely from the minute he showed up. Instead, the man says, “Right. Can I assume you’ve got registrations for your weapons?” and Jin’s heart stutters a little.

Needlessly so, apparently. Still calm, Namjoon nods, even goes so far as to proffer his gun. After a moment of hesitation, Jungkook follows suit. Hoseok uses his interface to swipe both of them, but the look he casts at the information screen that shows up in response is uninterested, even aimless. He keeps pulling and scratching at his black uniform, rocking on his heels, and every once in awhile the odd tremors repeat themselves in his hands, his legs, his shoulders. Seokjin can’t help but stare. He’s seen plenty of people under the influence of various substances, but he’s never seen anyone – least of all a cop – act like this.

Either oblivious to their looks or choosing to ignore them, Hoseok wanders over to the closest body, one of the first Jungkook took down, and nudges it with a booted foot. “I recognize a few of them,” he declares, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “They’re part of that group that’s been causing so much trouble down here, yeah?” He doesn’t seem to be expecting an answer. “At least that’s a dozen of the – it was a dozen, right? No. More than a dozen off the street. Maybe we can finally focus on some more important issues.”

 _Like the stolen stack of a Meth?_ Jin wonders. 

As though one of them said something – although they haven’t, and Jungkook might even have stopped breathing – the officer’s eyes snap towards the trio. “Why’d they come after you? They’re not – seems like too many people.”

Once again, Namjoon’s left to field the question. Not that Seokjin has any choice in the matter. “Dunno. We were at the Ring before, having some fun, and this one,” he jerks his thumb at Jin, “mentioned how we’d won at the games downstairs. Maybe they overheard and wanted to take the creds we won?”

Hoseok’s overly alert gaze focuses on Jin, who’s doing his best to look repentant and not indignant about being given the blame. “Is that why he looks like he’s about to be sick? You guys get into some hard stuff while you were there?” He doesn’t appear to care about the legality of that, one way or another. Minor drug usage is probably pretty low on the list of things this precinct needs to deal with.

“No,” Namjoon replies. “I think that’s the whole being shot at thing.” As it happens, he’s right.

“Oh… right. I forgot most people don’t…” Almost get killed every day, he probably means to say, but trails off. “You handled yourself well,” Hoseok continues into the awkward pause, turning to Jungkook.

Who nods curtly. “Yeah… I practice at a range a lot. Place like this, you need to protect yourself, y’know? I – you were better.” There’s something ridiculous about how jealous Jungkook sounds. “I’ve never seen bullets do that before.”

 _Do what?_ Jin wants to ask, but even though Namjoon’s relaxed his hold on Jin’s arm (fractionally), he’s still more than a little worried that they’ll react badly to him trying to talk. Hoseok snorts a laugh, more impatient than amused. “That’s less me than the gun. It’s custom made. Practice enough and the bullets practically bend themselves.”

“Uh huh…” For some reason Jungkook isn’t convinced. He’s eyeing Hoseok like he expects the man to explode or something.

Namjoon gently breaks in. “I’m sorry, officer, but do we need to stay here? None of us are injured, and I think Kwanghyun would feel more comfortable at home.” Jin’s watched enough crime serials to know that the request isn’t going to be granted; that’s just not the procedure for a shootout on some street. He can’t imagine that Namjoon wants to go to the police station or be surrounded by a bunch of cops – hell, at this point even he doesn’t really want to – but it seems unavoidable.

“I should take your statements,” Hoseok says, but then he just stands there, jittery and unfocused. It’s not until Namjoon coughs that the officer starts and refocuses, at least a little. “I’m not – sorry, you’ll need to wait until the on-duty officers arrive.”

And without another word, the man turns away from them, meanders through the sleeves, careless of the way his boots squelch through the blood on the street. He’s checking each stack with his interface watch, maybe looking at identities or making sure they aren’t destroyed. Namjoon and Jungkook exchange looks, and Jin half expects them to decide to either make a break for it or try to take the cop out while he’s distracted.

Eventually Namjoon jerks a shoulder. “We’ve prepared for this,” he says, very low. “We’ll just have to wait. And – here.” He digs in his coat’s pockets and then shoves something at Seokjin, a slender, silver wristband, and it’s so simple that it takes Jin a moment to realize that it’s an interface device. Nothing at all like his own, with its sleek monochrome frame, but with a feeling of relief he puts it on anyways, blinks a few times as it syncs with his internal network. Being without one had almost felt like being naked, and a quick scroll through the limited features confirms that the band has an identity tied to it – real and stolen from someone else, or just made up, he doesn’t know. It can’t make calls or connect to other devices, and when he circumspectly brings up a web page, he finds that he can access all the posts but can’t make any of his own.

He supposes it would have been a little naïve to hope they’d make that kind of mistake.

Namjoon guides Jin and Jungkook to the side while Hoseok makes harried efforts to shoo away the people who are beginning to congregate around the scene, mysteriously interested now that bullets have stopped flying. They’re in a good position to see three black and yellow hovercars (Jin’s once again surprised the district even has any) sinking from the sky, kicking up a cloud of dirt, and police are suddenly descending on the scene like a swarm of locusts.

With quick professionalism they set up a cordon, the laser red lights bright in the gathering darkness, warning away curious onlookers. Immediately after, they begin to tag the bodies and collect spent cartridges, and a few more peel off, presumably to look for the remaining ambushers. Actually, they’re as methodical and skilful as any staff he’s ever seen (not that Jin’s seen many police setups) and he’s just beginning to feel a mixture of unease and admiration for whoever’s leading them when a tall, curly haired officer walks over to Hoseok.

And salutes him.

Jin is gratified to note that he’s not alone in his slack-jawed disbelief; Namjoon makes a little, incredulous sound, eyes widening before they abruptly narrow, and Jungkook actually leans forward like he’s seriously doubting his eyesight. They can’t hear what’s being said, but the two seem to be arguing, with a lot of hand waving by the woman while Hoseok stares anywhere but her and rocks on his heels. She jabs at his arm and he winces and steps back but doesn’t seem like he’s budging more than that. After several moments, the conversation winds down. Hoseok gestures at them, and both cops come over.

“This is Lieutenant Adebayo. She’ll take your statements and be leading this case. If we need anything else, she’ll be in contact with you, too.”

“For now,” the officer says, her eyes flashing a challenge. “I’m sure the captain will step in later once he’s got his wounds fixed up.”

Wounds? Jin scours the man’s body, then finds the spot the officer had poked at, on his upper arm. There is a rip in the fabric of the uniform, though the cloth is so dark it’s hard to tell if there’s any bleeding at the spot. And he certainly hadn’t seemed to act like someone who’d just been shot. Or shot multiple times.

The man looks away from his officer, and her brows furrow in frustration before she switches her attention to them. Adebayo turns out to be just as efficient as the rest of the team. She scans their bands – as suspected, Jin comes up as Kwanghyun – and she takes their accounts of the situation with decisive questions, forcing all of them to answer at random. Jin does his best to go along with the barebones of the story that Namjoon’s already constructed, more wary than ever of saying the wrong thing, and none of them contradict each other. She doesn’t seem inclined to suspicion, anyways; apparently the captain has all but cleared them. Before too long she’s lowering her omni-tool and shutting off the recording.

Hoseok’s wandered off and is lingering by the side, just inside of the red-light tape. He doesn’t seem to know what to do with his hands. They dance around his body, tapping at his thighs, sweeping across his chest, or fretting at the air like he’s trying to grab something. One of the other policemen is attending to him, and sure enough, with his jacket removed, his arm is bleeding from two spots, sluggish trickles that he pays no mind to. The medic is struggling to get it wrapped in between his fidgeting.

Jin’s not entirely sure, but it seems like the rest of the collection of officers, some ten of them, are so blatantly not looking at Hoseok that they must be making an effort at it. Just once, Seokjin catches one of them glancing at Hoseok, with an expression so troubled it’s too personal to just be a subordinate worrying about her wounded boss.

Adebayo notices where he’s looking. “You’re lucky Captain Jung came along when he did,” she says stiffly. “I don’t know why these thugs jumped you guys, and I _really_ don’t know why they kept at it when you shot the first few, but you’d be dead if he hadn’t shown up.”

Inclining his head, a bare acknowledgement, Namjoon says, “I think you’re right. Although Captain Hoseok mentioned there weren’t any patrols around this area. Why was he here?” His inquiry is more aggressive than he’s sounded throughout, a stormy tension drawing his forehead tight.

“I don’t know, but that’s not any of your business,” is her flat answer as she pulls back a little.

“Maybe not, but I’m just concerned. Why weren’t there any police patrols around? This isn’t a safe place to begin with. Should we be scared? Are the police giving up on this area? Do I need to tell our neighbours that we’re alone now, that we can only count on ‘off-duty’ cops?” He pauses, studying her with an intensity that has her shifting, and then asks, “Or do the Meths just want the police patrolling somewhere else?” 

At the last question, her chin jerks up, and Adebayo snaps, “The Meths don’t say where we go, and _no,_ we’re not abandoning this neighbourhood. Of course we aren’t!” She stops, takes a deep breath. “Listen, I live around here, too. I want it to be safe. We’re going to be patrolling more in the future. This just happened, _coincidentally_ , at a bad time. And the captain saved your asses and got shot in the process, so you shouldn’t be going around badmouthing us to your neighbours or anyone else!”

Abruptly his penetrating expression falls away, replaced by an embarrassment that seems artificial to Jin, a mask placed over some other, stronger emotion. “I’m sorry. It’s just – it seems to be getting worse around here. I haven’t been – I just wouldn’t want to lose anyone.”

Adebayo softens and relents. “Yeah. Yeah, I get that. Look, there’s not much more you can do here. The captain said you weren’t injured?” Wordlessly Namjoon nods. “We have your info; we’ll give you a call or drop by once we’re done interviewing some of these.” Her careless gesture indicates the sleeves being loaded up into one of the hovercars. “Best you can do is go home and rest. You’re not planning on leaving Triptych anytime soon, are you?”

“No, Lieutenant. Last I checked, you need a helluva lot of creds for a vacation.”

Making a face, she steps away. “Don’t remind me. Just keep it that way, huh? We’ll probably need you to testify at some point.”

“You got it.”

Not needing to be told twice, Namjoon pulls Jin along, Jungkook keeping pace alongside them. Jin glances back, in time to see Lieutenant Adebayo rest a hesitant hand on Hoseok’s shoulder, leaning forward to speak to him. He also watches long enough to see the lanky man gently shrug off that supportive hand and turn his back on his subordinate, on the sprawl of bodies, and, it seems to Jin, on the whole situation altogether. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprised by their rescuer? Interested to know what's up with Hobi, or anything else? Jot down a comment, I'd love to know people are reading this!


	6. Chapter 6

It is a dispirited group that lags into the apartment, late into the late afternoon. Puppy-like, Jimin is waiting at the door for them, but as soon as his eyes fall on their tired faces, his eager expectation slumps, and he doesn’t ask the question that hovers uneasily in the humid, too-hot air of the confined space.

Namjoon answers as he kicks off his shoes, anyways. “We didn’t find much,” he says, and though his voice is soft, there’s a sense of tightly controlled weariness in the curt delivery. And something else, too, an edge that’s been there since they met with the police, an edge obvious as he almost rips off his jacket and tosses it across the back of their brown couch. Is he worried the cops are going to track them down somehow when they realize the IDs are fakes? Or that the gang will find where they live?

“You’re later than I thought you’d be,” Jimin ventures cautiously, backing up and giving the other two the opportunity to crowd through the entrance and into the living room.

“We got ambushed by those fuckers from Rafa’s group.” Jungkook says it casually, but he’s looking at Jimin from the corner of his eye. Jimin doesn’t disappoint; his startled inhale and saucer-sized eyes make Jungkook grin, though the smile doesn’t last for long. “We got out okay. Some jolter came along and helped… a little.” Even that is given reluctantly, but it’s the first description that catches Jin’s attention.

“What’s a jolter?” he asks.

So tired that he apparently forgets to scowl at Seokjin, Jungkook replies, “Neurochem user, only they don’t stop, you know? An addict. That guy was so high off of them I’m surprised he could function, let alone move and shoot like he did.” Once again, the partly jealous, partly awed tone is back in his speech, and Jin sort of wishes he could have seen just what kind of stunt Hoseok had pulled to elicit such a response. Jungkook doesn’t seem the type to give his admiration very easily.

“He’s not just a jolter,” Namjoon inserts from out of view. He’d trailed into the kitchen while they spoke, and his statement comes from there. “He’s CTAC.” Each syllable is flat, monotone.

Jimin and Jungkook exchange looks, but it falls to Jin to ask another question. “CTAC? That doesn’t make sense if he’s a captain of the police district.” He hears his own uncertainty in the protest, but for once this isn’t a realm he’s utterly out of his depth in. CTAC – the Colonial Tactical Assault Corps – is common knowledge. Protectors of the Protectorate, Earth’s mightiest heroes, Our Shields Against Them. Jin’s never had a very clear idea of who Them are, given they've never found aliens among the stars. Still, he knows the agents work mostly in the outer rim colonies and only occasionally closer to Earth. He knows they’re highly trained, put in the best combat sleeves that the Protectorate can buy. He knows they’re considered the most lethal force in the galaxy.

And he knows they serve for life, too.

When there’s no reply, and the two other men make no move to enter the kitchen – in fact, they stay away from the entrance, crowded together near the threadbare couch without sitting down – Jin cautiously goes forward, ignoring Jungkook’s _psst_ of an objection. He pauses in the doorway, unable to make himself go in any further.

Namjoon is leaning over the metal sink with the water running, his sleeves rolled up, fingers pressed white knuckled into the edges, head bowed. With the sun seeping away outside, casting only weak orange rays, and the kitchen light off, it’s quite dark. Even when Jin questions, “Namjoon?” the other man doesn’t move. Jin looks back to Jimin and Jungkook and the latter makes a short beckoning motion, but Jimin is watching with pursed lips and just gives a small, hesitant shrug as Jin meets his eyes. That’s close enough to a benediction, so he edges into the room and flips the lights on.

Not as unaware as he’d seemed, the hunched man speaks. “He’s CTAC, Seokjin. Only they could do what he did. And only their very best could do it with the amount of neurochems he was channeling.”

“How do you know that?” _And why are you so angry about it?_ He doesn’t think that’s a safe question to ask.

“I’ve lived with Jungkook for years. I know what neurochem use looks like. I also know what Kookie can do, and if he _can’t_ do it… It must mean that cop is something more.” By now Jin is vaguely impressed that the metal Namjoon’s pressing his hands against hasn’t dented… or that Namjoon’s fingers haven’t broken. They are completely bloodless, though, and the tendons in his tanned arms stand out in taut lines as he leans against the sink even harder.

Unsatisfied with that answer, with how impersonal it is, he shifts. “So maybe he just has a better system than Jungkook. It doesn’t mean he’s CTAC.”

Exhaling hard, Namjoon twists the tap off with such force that Jin half expects it to break. “Let me put it this way,” the pink haired man says. “You might be right. Maybe that man is as much of a CTAC agent as I am… and I’m not CTAC. But that has absolutely nothing to do with what we were, and he _was_ part of the Corps.”

There’s some kind of defiant evasion in that response, a hint that Jin can’t pick up, and he quits after a moment, intimidated by the aloof mien Namjoon has pulled over himself. Running his hands awkwardly along the fraying hems of the jeans he’d been given, he wonders for the first time whose they are. Not Jimin’s, he’s sure that they would have been too short. Whoever they came from, even after only a few hours of running around in them, they feel… comfortable. As comfortable as the expensive clothing he’d worn before. Maybe even more so.

Perhaps everyone should try being shot at in the clothes they’re considering before making a final decision about buying them. He’s pretty certain which he would pick after this particular exercise.

“I’m…” Trailing off, he brushes an errant bang away from his eyes. There’s just something so _defeated_ about the other man. Something that certainly wasn’t there at the beginning of this day, and Jin can’t help but think it’s his fault. In a way, he shouldn’t care – not when they’re holding him prisoner, however loose a definition that may be – but his mind keeps flying back to the Do Not Resleeve his parents had put on his stack. Back to the fact that the police had just rolled over and obeyed the DNR, content for him to float in nothingness while his murderer went free in the light.

Namjoon, head of this disparate crew, was the architect of his escape. Even if the motives weren’t pure – were, in fact, far from it – he can’t ignore the fact that the man has been patient with him… kind even. And, for all that he suspects, somewhere deep and uncomfortable in his chest, that Namjoon is lying or at least withholding information about certain things, the bleak reality is that these people are probably his best bet of figuring out his murder and, just as important, making sure it doesn’t happen again.

And, with a sinking feeling of trepidation, Jin acknowledges to himself that if they fail and fall, he’ll probably be falling right alongside them.

So, he tries again. “I’m sorry for the thing with Taehyung. Seriously, I– I swear I didn’t do it on purpose.” Although Namjoon’s already made it clear he doesn’t find that reassuring, “And if that girl did somehow figure out that I wasn’t the guy… I’m sorry for that, too.” He has to extend this olive branch, and not just for the sake of his security either – Namjoon’s back, still turned so resolutely to him, is a wall that he’s desperate to break through, if only to see and try to read his expression.

There’s a moment of resistance, and then Namjoon’s shoulders shift in a sigh, his hand coming to rub the back of his neck. He doesn’t turn around, though. “…I don’t know what happened, but I don’t blame you for it. How could I? Have you ever– No, I know you’ve never been in a circumstance like this. If you’d gone to pieces and lost your shit in that club, or totally flipped out while those guys were burning powder at us, I still couldn’t have blamed you. Meths don’t deal with stuff like this. Hell, you did better than expected.”

That’s patronizing. Really, really patronizing. It doesn’t help that it’s also true. Struggling to contain the instant impulse to soothe his pride by saying something irate, Seokjin doesn’t reply right away.

In that silence, Namjoon abruptly twists to face Jin. His cheeks are faintly pink. “Sorry,” he says, a welcome albeit unexpected apology. “I’m not saying you were useless, or pathetic or a coward or anything like that.”

“No,” Jin agrees, keeping his tone light in the face of the bumbling attempt at an explanation, “you were just saying that you expect most of the people I live with to be that way.”

Pink changing to red, the other man nonetheless doesn’t break their eye contact. “Maybe. Maybe I expect most Meths to be that way. Maybe most Meths are that way.”

“Oh, so you think you’ve known enough of us to make that judgement?”

He’s surprised by the answer. “Yeah, I have. Seriously. But like I said… You did well, Seokjin.”

“For a Meth?” He doesn’t want to sound bitter – he’s trying not to be. But still, it slips out, just a little.

Namjoon shakes his head, finally looking away. “No. For anyone in your shoes. I just – I wish we would have found something to make it worthwhile.”

Forcing his voice into even lighter tones, Jin says, “Yah, now I know where Jungkook gets it from. None of you are good at looking for the positives, huh?” The skeptical look Namjoon sends him seriously questions the existence of any such positives, and Jin shakes a finger at him, glad enough for a chance to be condescending and ease the mood, too. “We haven’t even swapped information – you haven’t even asked me what I found out at Ringwanderung! Let’s look at that before you start talking about nothing worthwhile.” 

A shadow of bleakness still lingers on Namjoon’s face, reluctant to be driven off. He hesitates – at least until Seokjin says, quieter and more seriously, “What else can you do at this point?”

That doesn’t quite get rid of the despondency settled around the man, so at odds with his cheerfully pastel shade of hair, but it does stir Namjoon into motion. He calls for the other two, and shortly enough they’re all arranged throughout the kitchen, Jin and Jimin seated at the table while he rests against the kitchen sink and Jungkook sits on the counter next to him.

Namjoon begins to fill Jimin in on what had taken place at the Ring. While Jin and Namjoon were talking, Jungkook had told him the details of the ambush and their interactions with Hoseok and the police. Jin can’t do much more than shrug when his lack of recollection is relayed, somehow more ashamed of the failure now that Namjoon is recounting it for multiple ears to hear. Cheeks dully burning, he lets Jungkook take over in reciting their conversation with the girl, though he can’t help but protest when he’s described as ‘so obvious that she totally saw through it and contacted Rafa’s gang.’

“You don’t know that!” He could swallow his pride with Namjoon, but the brat is a different story.

Snorting, Jungkook throws back, “And how the hell else would they have known we were at the Ring, if you didn’t tip her off? Oh, right, maybe when you opened your stupid mouth with that other guy, you somehow alerted them that way.”

“I didn’t see you complaining about my conversational skills when you were having a fit next to me! And how could me saying a _name_ have tipped anyone off? It didn’t even tip Taehyung off, and it was his name!”

Apparently a little impatient at playing peacekeeper, Namjoon cuts sharply through their bickering. “Is there a point to this argument? I don’t think so. For all we know, they were watching the Ring, hoping I’d do something stupid like bring this sleeve back to the club, and lo and behold, they were right. Maybe we could chalk it all up to me.”

“Joonie…” Jimin reproaches softly, and Namjoon presses his hands to his eyes before dropping them.

“Right. There’s no point in dwelling on any of it. From what Seokjin’s said, there’s going to be a party and non-Meths are invited. Is that significant?”

“I didn’t even know Meths had parties like that,” Jungkook observes, cheerfully unrepentant after being scolded, but more focused now.

All three of them turn to Jin, as if he can give them an answer. He sits up straighter in response to their expectant stares, somewhat jarred to remember that he actually can. “There aren’t a lot of occasions where norm – uh, non-Meths are invited to be anything but servers or entertainment, but they do happen. I’d find it hard to call it significant, except that the girl said all the members of Siwoo’s gang are invited. That’s not normal. Plus, they’re not exactly, umm…”

“Good normies?” Jimin asks with a wry smile.

“Upstanding citizens. I’ve known about people who were, uh… favourite girls or guys or whatever, being invited, but those were individuals, and normally guests are a little more... respectable.” Mayors, chiefs of police, well-renowned doctors, high ranking members of the United Nations Interstellar Protectorate… those were the guests they normally saw. Not that he could have identified them specifically; all of the non-Meths, dressed in generic clothes, uncomfortable deference and aging flesh, had looked the same to Jin when he attended parties. As out of place as crooked teeth in a Meth smile. “If someone is inviting all of them, there’s a reason for it. Not to mention…” He hesitates, struggling to articulate the implicit knowledge that makes it so obvious to him that something is unusual about this circumstance.

Namjoon prompts him patiently. “Not to mention…?”

“There’s a– a hierarchy, I guess you could call it. Who can hold social occasions, when, how many, what kind… and guests come into that. If some nobody invited that many non-Meths to a party, they’d be ostracized, their business contracts would start falling through, they’d find it impossible to operate in certain markets because of closed doors, that sort of thing. The only ones who could pull something like this off would have to be so powerful that we – that the other Meths couldn’t afford to attack them.”

Jin’s eyes had fallen, more comfortable resting on his bony fingers than his audience, but when no one says anything right away, he pulls them up. The trio is regarding him doubtfully, like they’re trying to decide if he’s lying or at least delusional. He scowls, defensive.

“That seems… harsh,” Namjoon finally says.

His scowl deepens. “Well, it’s true. You were right before, we don’t get shot at all that much, but we’ve got our own issues to face.”

“It must be so hard,” Jungkook comments, his tone mocking. “Can you imagine only being able to afford seven vacation houses, instead of twenty? And all because you upset your super refined neighbours by bringing home the wrong kind of guy.”

Wisely, Jin doesn’t point out that most Meths don’t own vacation homes; Glass Harbour has more than enough amenities, virtual and otherwise, to cater to whatever kind of holiday a person could desire. He also doesn’t mention the several Meth families – former Meths – that he’s known personally, who’ve suffered so catastrophically from their social stumbles that they’ve had to move from Glass Harbour. One even lives just a little outside of the Curve, in an _apartment._

Somehow, he suspects this would not be a sympathetic crowd for those stories. “The point,” he says emphatically, “is that whoever is supplying this gang, if the party means anything, is big. Really big.”

“Could your family invite the group?” The unexpected question comes from Jimin, his lips pursed as he tilts his head.

From Jungkook, Jin would have taken that as another attack. However, Jimin’s expression is thoughtful, not malicious, and Jin can already feel himself shifting into the accounting mode, can almost see the little tally that Meths at all involved in their family’s businesses always have in the backs of their minds. The numerical and personal marks, creds in this account, promises with that family, debts and expectations and threats as important as the actual money involved with each relationship. He’s always been good at seeing those ledgers, at understanding where his family stands in the game they play.

Sometimes, conceit aside, Jin’s even entertained the notion that he might be better at it than his parents, than his elder siblings. Sometimes, he thinks he sees things that they don’t.

It suddenly occurs to him that that might have something to do with his current predicament. Frowning at the thought, Jin slowly shakes his head. “We might be able to, but… we wouldn’t do it. That kind of thing, it’s – arrogant. It’s rubbing it in people’s faces. What could one gang possibly get us that would be worth that kind of ill will?” He pauses before summoning a deep, hesitant breath. “I think… I can’t be sure, but I think you might be dealing with one of the Three.” 

It’s like someone’s sucked the air out of the room, an almost palpable pressure descending over the other three. For a short moment, Jin genuinely thinks Jimin’s going to topple out of the chair before catching himself, while Jungkook strangles a gasp and darts a look at Namjoon. For his part, Namjoon’s expression, which had been relaxing into one of vested interest as their discussion drew on, has become stony.

He’d known it wasn’t good news – of course it wasn’t. Who wanted to hear that one of the three most influential families in Triptych, centuries old and rich beyond defining, might be gunning after you? But there’s something personal in their dismay, something centered directly on the covert way they’re trying not to stare at Namjoon.

“I take it you know them,” he observes dryly, expecting to be put off for the hundredth time today.

Namjoon dumps his expectation on its head by the simple expedient of saying, “Some of them. ‘Specially the guy that had me murdered last month.”

Now it’s Jin’s turn to sputter and gawk, although in his case he has no reason to hold back – and he doesn’t. For several heartbeats his throat fights with the torrent of words trying to surge from his chest, strangled sounds escaping in little bursts, and when at long last the knot clears, he finds he doesn’t know what to say, except – “Murdered!?”

Arcing his eyebrow with fine irony, Namjoon points out, “It’s not that unusual, apparently. In this room alone, fifty percent of the people have been murdered at least once in their life.”

“Seventy-five,” Jungkook corrects, legs swinging idly from where he sits on the counter, and he’s grinning such a toothy smile that it’s impossible to tell if he’s referring to himself or Jimin.

“Okay, seventy-five.” Refusing to be put off track, Namjoon continues. “The point is, you shouldn’t be so surprised.”

“That percentage doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be surprised. It just means that I’m in a really messed up room.” His utter shock is fading fast, replaced by energetic calculations, and the sardonic joke rolls almost unnoticed from his tongue. It brings a light laugh tilting through his companions, but Jin is focused on other things. “Who did it?” Any of the Triumvirate were capable of it – you’d have to be an idiot to honestly believe otherwise – but he has a flash of premonition just before Namjoon says the name.

After all, if this was going to be the worst day of Jin’s life, why wouldn’t Taehyung’s dad be involved in some way?

“Kim Junseo,” Namjoon responds, confirming that this is indeed a nightmare of the waking variety.

“Why – why would Mr. Kim want to have you killed?”

“ _Mr._ Kim _?_ ” Jungkook cackles, and at the same time Jimin suggests quietly, “Because he’s a bastard.”

Namjoon leans back further against the counter and crosses his arms. “We knew each other before.” That’s so blatantly a lie that Jin feels his nose scrunching at the shallowness of the attempt. How could someone like – well, like Namjoon, know one of the oldest and most powerful humans alive? A Meth who wasn’t even one of the snapshot humanitarians, occasionally surfacing from Glass Harbour and pretending to care about the masses?

Lip curling at Jin’s disbelief, the other man chooses not to address it directly. “Look, like Jimin said, gangs were getting taken out daily, just completely swamped. We knew almost from the beginning that Rafa’s group was being supplied, and usually that means Meths. So I got into Glass Harbour, scouted for a few days, and–”

“Got into Glass Harbour? You don’t just ‘get’ into Glass Harbour.”

“You do if you have Jimin to steal an ID chip from some drunk fool, and Yoongi to copy it before Jimin puts it back.” Jimin smiles innocently when Jin glances at him, all thick eyelashes and cherubic cheeks. He looks as likely to steal an ID from anyone as an old lady is to take candy from a baby. Which is probably the point, but Jin’s not sure he feels great about it.

“Anyways… after a few days of nothing, I decided to set up a meeting with Junseo, to see if he knew anything. Offered him information of my own, but the whole meeting tasted – bad.” Namjoon’s face contorts, almost like the taste is still lingering in his mouth. “Things… went to hell shortly after, and I got shot.”

That explanation could probably win an award for the biggest understatement of the year. That, or be a runner up for least descriptive. 

Eyes squinting suspiciously, he says, “How can you be here?” When they just stare at him, confused, Jin clarifies. “As far as I’ve heard, if Mr. Kim wants people dead, they _stay_ dead.” And are lucky to get off easy. “How could you possibly have got away with just – with a sleeve death?” There’s nothing ‘just’ about death anymore, sleeve or otherwise. Not for Jin.

Namjoon shrugs, looks down. “I got lucky, I guess. Sometimes things just line up a certain way, and if the stars or the gods or our karmas are in the right place, we end up where we’re supposed to be.”

Jimin’s giggle ruins the poignancy of that statement. “Or if Jungkook is lurking around in a diving suit when you throw your bleeding self into the ocean, and he rips out your stack before letting your sleeve go… sometimes that helps, too.”

Another round of laughter ripples through the room, Jungkook proudly rolling his shoulders, though Jin doesn’t join in. They seem awfully casual about how close Namjoon had been to Real Death, and there’s an undercurrent to the amusement. It’s like they’re laughing because there’s just nothing else to do.

“What actually happened?” he persists, still having trouble believing Junseo would let anyone go. From the (mostly unpleasant) interactions they’ve had, it’s obvious he’s not that kind of man.

Not to mention what he does to his children. What he did to his wife.

“I _did_ get lucky. We had met on the rooftop of his mansion. It’s one of the ones that are right on the water’s edge and –” Namjoon sees something in Jin’s expression that makes him pause. “I guess you’ve been there. Well, we were on the roof, and I – noticed, I guess, that some of his men were too tense. Hands too close to their hardware, you know? So, I casually made my way to the side – didn’t really have a plan, was thinking I might climb down or something – and that’s when Junseo made a gesture, and they shot me.

“I, uh, jumped –” Or fell, Jin thinks to himself privately, “and hit several smaller roofs on the way down. Think I broke my leg somewhere along the way. Definitely broke my wrist. Ended up on the dock he’s got going around the back of the place. I knew if I stayed, I was gonna wish I hadn’t… so I didn’t. Rolled off the dock, into the water, and then drowned.” His smile isn’t anything close to amused. “Best I can say for that experience is that it goes by quicker than bleeding out or being tortured.”

Now it’s Jungkook’s turn to jump in, his chest practically swelling with self-importance. “Hyung told me to be in the water when the meeting started up, and I was deep, where they don’t have any sensors. Heard the shots on hyung’s interface and came up in time to see his body sinking. One or both of us probably triggered an alarm, but I’d got his stack out and was deep again by the time they sent out boats and sharks. After that it was easy, just swam home.” For once, if the story is true, Jin admits (silently) that the young man might actually deserve to wear his cocky grin.

He realizes he’s smiling in response to that expression, and the quirk of his lips only deepens, amusement and something close to awe driving his light feeling. They speak of it so, so nonchalantly, but… you couldn’t do something like that if you weren’t brave. Madly so, maybe, but it’s a glorious kind of madness, the madness of risking life and limb for someone else. It reminds Seokjin of the various serial dramas he’s watched, but this is real, as real as breathing, as real as a heartbeat. Is that why the story thrills him so much, fills him with so much satisfaction? Because it’s as real as it is exhilarating?

It’s also humbling, embarrassing, even. Namjoon looks as comfortable in his sleeve as if he’d been born to it. Jin can’t even imagine a future where he feels that natural in his skin, let alone a month from now, and that’s not even counting the painful pressure that still compresses his chest, sometimes, the panic and fear and paranoia. For a man recently murdered, Namjoon looks awfully in control.

Or maybe the satisfaction has nothing to do with any of them, is just because Jin likes to hear about Junseo being made a fool of. Because of Taehyung, he’s never been able to actively take joy in the thought of Taehyung’s father experiencing some kind of disaster – the financial impact would be too significant on the family – but this, this is something else altogether. The villain – and Junseo _is_ a villain – thwarted by a ragtag band, left staring over the edge of his mansion while Namjoon sank out of his grasp. Jin wishes he could have seen that malignant face wearing an expression besides aggressive disdain. It might even have been worth being kidnapped.

Being kidnapped… His smile slips away at the thoughts forcing their way to his attention. Jimin had said they took his stack in the hope that he could tell them who was supplying the other gang. But– 

“If he tried to have you killed… If he did, you sure as anything didn’t need _me_ to tell you he’s behind all of this!” A wave of outrage has him rising from his chair, drowning out the previous warmth of respect. “You didn’t even need me _at all._ ” He literally can’t reconcile such an oversight with the cool intellect and execution of this gang. It seems inconceivable that they would have gone to such trouble just to have him sitting here, telling them what they already know – which suggests there’s something he hasn’t been told.

The realization is a bucket of ice over the comfort that had been growing on him.

“Seokjin –”

“Do not _Seokjin_ me. You have put me off, again and again. About stealing my stack, about who the hell you put me in, about the CTAC agent, and now, apparently, about the whole reason I am even here in the first place.” In his fury his diction comes out like he’s participating in a family argument, all clipped precision and compressed emotion.

As sudden as that, quick as blinking, there’s a chasm splitting him from the other men in the room. Or – no. The gulf isn’t new; it’s just that it’s been so much easier to ignore the gaping hole at his feet, to pretend it doesn’t exist, than to confront it. Easier to imagine that he’s somehow going through an induction period into this group, rough but with a light at the end, than to replace it with the word abduction.

Easier by far to pretend that Meth is a casual nickname, and not a condemnation so wide he couldn’t have crossed it even if he wanted to.

As if they would ever trust him with anything even remotely approaching the truth. There’s an appallingly sour taste in his mouth, and their silent stares are just confirmation for what Jin has been eagerly, pathetically ignoring up to this point.

“Whose body did you put me in?” Each syllable is a wooden block, toppling gracelessly from his dry mouth. When Namjoon doesn’t reply, Jin draws himself up, forces himself to stop the erratic blinking. “You said you would tell me that much.”

“It’s better if you don’t know, Seokjin,” Jimin says quietly. This time, when he’d stood, none of them had overly stiffened, but there’s a tightness in the air for all of that. “The less you know about any of this, the less trouble you’ll get in if anything happens. It’s safer.”

“For you or for me?”

Jimin’s small hands spread, palms up, in a helplessly imploring gesture. “Can’t it be for both?”

Jungkook is staring at his feet as he softly kicks his heels against the counter, but it’s Namjoon’s heavy gaze that Seokjin seeks – and finds. “We’ll fill you in on everything,” Jin echoes. “That is what you told me, but now you will not tell me anything. So, what you said at the Ring was… what?” But he already knows the various answers. A security measure. A gag for the pathetic Meth so he didn’t make a scene. A lie.

No matter how hard he tries, Seokjin really can’t understand why that hurts him so much.

Namjoon’s cheek is in his teeth and it takes him too long to relinquish the bite. Finally, he says, “We can’t tell you everything. The less you know, the less you can tell.” Tell voluntarily? Tell under torture? Jin can’t tell which the other man is referring to, but Namjoon’s features are soft and rounded and it strikes Jin with another wave of fury that he might actually be being pitied. “But I will say this – we didn’t absolutely know that Junseo was the one supplying the other group. Actually, we still don’t know for –”

“Don’t lie! He kills you and you expect me to believe –”

“I knew him before, I told you that already. Our – dealings – made it possible that he wanted to kill me for other reasons entirely, and I didn’t exactly have time to question his motives when I was falling off his roof.”

“What other reasons?”

He loses Namjoon with that question. The attentive expression on the other’s face hardens, and he shakes his head. “There’s not much point in talking about this, and even less point in arguing about it. Your concern should be with remembering your own story, not sniffing around mine.” If he’d slammed a door right in Jin’s face, he couldn’t have made the message any clearer.

Seokjin’s broad shoulders slump. He pulls at his sleeves a few times, covering his hands with the blue fabric, aimless anger still lodged in his throat. There’s nothing to spit it at – or at least Namjoon has made it clear just how far that would get him – and the thwarted energy departs him in a weary rush, leaving hollow disappointment and exhaustion in its place. He lets his hands fall limply to his sides and turns his back to all of them.

Without another word, he walks away. Not to the front door, obviously; he’s well aware of how that would go. Rather, Jin sets his feet to the hallway and passes out of the kitchen.

“Seokjin, what…”

“I cannot remember anything, and since you are not going to tell me your own information, I can’t help with anything else, either. I am going to my room.”

It’s possible he hears Jungkook complain about that, the protest soothed away by Jimin’s high, soft tones, but it’s Namjoon’s voice he’s really listening for. He’s disappointed by what it gives him. “At least eat something before you do.” When he doesn’t reply, hand on the knob to his room, the other man continues, sharper, exasperated. “We don’t have room service here, Seokjin.”

“Really?” he replies, low and washed out. “And here I thought prisoners would get five-star treatment.”

He steps into the room and closes the door on whatever replies they make. The ache in his body, washed away for a time by the sweeping unfamiliarity of the day, is back with a vengeance. It’s a pain that travels freely from his toes to a throbbing behind his eyes – and of course, Jin realizes with dull resentment, he’s hungry, too. It’s all too much to face – this has all been too much to face – so Jin doesn’t. Groping through the dark, he finds the bed and falls into its (not quite downy soft) embrace.

And when, minutes later, he hears the click of his bedroom door being locked from the outside, all Seokjin does is pull the sheets over his head and pray that, when he wakes up, this will all have been some kind of horrifying dream. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this hurting? Is this intriguing? Jeez, I hope so! But don't worry, lovely readers, we've just about hit the last of our Jin vs everyone angst - it can only go up from here!
> 
> Right?


	7. Chapter 7

He has never had cause to believe in ghosts, but over the next few days, Jin begins to think that he might have become one. Everything his eyes light upon is a little filmy, like it's covered by a thin gauze that even his perfect vision couldn’t hope to pierce. So too, when he touches the rough sheets or the worn bedposts of his refuge, they’re strangely insubstantial, as if his fingers might sink through them at any moment. His hunger, though present, never rises above a distant grumble.

That is, at least in part, because despite Namjoon’s warning, they deliver food to his room a few times a day. More than anything – more than the shabby surroundings or the lack of technology – the deliveries remind Jin of how far away he is from anything he’s ever known. Used to meals cooked to absolute flawlessness, with fresh and exotic ingredients, the food Jimin silently hands him on a tray is so bland, so mediocre, as to be revolting. He picks at it like he’s eating sawdust, having to force his teeth to come together to even manage to chew.

Or maybe the food is so unappetizing because he _is_ a ghost, and ghosts aren’t supposed to eat.

For the amount that Jimin and Jungkook talk to him, he might as well be a floating spirit. That’s not entirely their own fault – Jin is as up to conversation as he is to choking down the lukewarm food, and their few attempts are met with a detached response – but even so, every time they come into his room, he almost feels invisible. Their gazes never rest on him for long, and they don’t make eye contact at all. Jungkook especially chews out his emotion on his lips, but even Jimin is hesitant, uncomfortable, lingering only long enough to ask the rote questions of “are you okay” and “do you remember anything”.

No and no.

“You don’t have to stay in the room all day, Seokjin.” Namjoon’s statement is muffled, coming from behind the closed door of the bathroom and competing with the running tap as Jin washes his hands. After the second day, Jungkook had informed him they’d set up some kind of special lock on the apartment’s front door, one that would only open for the three of them and not Jin. Apparently, there’d been such a rush before kidnapping him they’d forgotten or overlooked purchasing or installing it beforehand.

He supposes that if he were really a ghost, he’d just be able to pass through walls and their stupid security measures wouldn’t matter to him. At the same time, they _don’t_ matter to him; he couldn’t have cared less about the news if he’d tried, even though it means he can freely wander the apartment.

Finished washing his hands, Seokjin spends several minutes drying them on the blue towel that looks more like a dishrag, in the vague hope that Namjoon will be gone by the time he’s done. While all three of his capturers have been away, at least as far as Seokjin can tell from voices he hears – Jungkook especially is rarely around – Namjoon seems to be at the apartment the most. And if anyone was going to convince Jin that he has a flesh-and-blood frame, it’s Namjoon.

The man won’t leave him alone, at least not for long stretches. Even when Jin gives monosyllabic replies, that doesn’t stop him from talking, low and thoughtful and meandering, just comments about life or an article he saw online. It also doesn’t stop him from being in Jin’s room, reading a book or typing away on his interface device, and offering with his silence what his words are missing. He’s like one of those hovering parents, afraid to miss the moment their precious baby speaks its first words, only Namjoon is afraid of missing Jin’s miraculous recovery of his memories.

If he was feeling differently, it might have been annoying. As it is, Seokjin just finds himself dimly wishing the other man would go away, so he could finish sinking all the way down to the bottom of the frigid lake he’s fallen into.

His hope is in vain. When he opens the door, Namjoon is still lingering nearby, holding the white, plastic tray of food Jin had picked over this morning. He hesitates, then slightly proffers the cold rice and stew. “Do you want any more of this?”

“No, thank you,” Jin replies, as politely as he knows how. Since the first day, cold fatigue has replaced the marrow in his bones, the blood in his veins, the air in his lungs. He’s just too tired to be anything but polite. To feel anything but polite. Polite and empty. Smiling hollowly, Jin runs his hand through his gold tinted hair and turns back to the bedroom, intent on settling, once again, onto his too-hard bed.

“We captured your sleeve seven – eight, I guess, days ago.” That’s enough to rock Seokjin to a halt, his mind running sluggish attempts to understand what that information means.

Namjoon’s voice is… strange. Wary, tired, but there’s something resolute about the way he forces it out, too. As though, even as he speaks, he’s making a decision. “The man who was in the sleeve you’re wearing is one of Rafa’s. He’s not one of the grunts, he’s a lieutenant or something, and we grabbed him both to get you a sleeve, and because we thought he could tell us something. It wasn’t an entirely pretty plan, and it’s a good thing Jungkook and Jimin know how to fight. That’s why the sleeve was so beat up when you got in it.”

A brief flicker of satisfaction flares up and then dies into embers. He’d been right about his sleeve, about Siwoo, being a part of this. So what? It was just a confirmation of what he’d guessed, and it wasn’t anything new. It’s not enough to wake him up.

He doesn’t retreat to his room, though.

“We’ve had Siwoo in VR for a few days now, trying to get him to tell us about Rafa’s plans. It hasn’t really… been going well.”

His mind is stirring through the icy slush of his apathy, trying to take an interest in what Namjoon is saying, and resentment makes him bite his tongue on the questions teetering at the edge of being voiced. Why should he care? Namjoon condescends to give him this little bit of information, like a treat thrown to one of those teacup pets some people carry around with them, and he should just roll over? Pretend that everything is okay? No, just – no. He can’t do it again.

“I just… If we can’t use Siwoo, I was hoping you might have an idea of where we could go from here. There’s the party, but it’s a long time away, and besides, getting in seems impossible and I don’t know… I’ve been trying to think of how we could confront Junseo, or at least get some information on him, but… There are so many possibilities. Too many. I don’t know how to narrow them down, and I just…”

Seokjin closes his eyes against the helplessness in the other man’s voice. He’s already decided not to care. He doesn’t care, he doesn’t care, he doesn’t – “Why haven’t you been able to get any of this from Siwoo?” For a moment Jin almost persuades himself he hadn’t just asked the question. Almost.

Relief saturates the quick reply. “He claims he doesn’t know anything, and he may even not know a lot, but I think he’s hiding something.”

“Hiding something? In VR? I thought –” Throat closing in a wave of exhaustion, Jin sags against the hallway wall. “I thought people couldn’t do that,” he mumbles. After all, virtual is a perfect interrogation setting. Everyone knows that. You could do anything to someone there, in any way imaginable, and if they died from what you put them through, you just flipped a switch, restarted, and began again. The mind is a lot more resilient than the body.

At least until it isn’t.

“We’re not – I know it might seem differently to you, Seokjin, but we’re not experts at this kind of thing. None of us, not even Yoongi. Beyond just the technical aspects, it’s – Doing what we’re doing to Siwoo… It’s not easy, and it just gets harder every time.”

Now, with his body caved in on itself, Jin can bear to turn and regard Namjoon. Really inspect him, like he hasn’t since the start. The man looks ill. Hollow cheeks, purple crescents under his eyes, and a sallow undertone to his tanned skin. And… hadn’t he been wearing that grey t-shirt yesterday? If he’s been sleeping a lot lately, Jin will eat the dry rice and stew that tasted like someone had dropped in a saltshaker. It’s that unwell pallor that reassures Seokjin that Namjoon is telling the truth (about this, at least). Although, if Jin is being upfront – he would have believed it anyways.

None of them seem the types to enjoy torturing someone, no matter how much Jin wants to think badly of them. Even Jungkook, so hostile toward Meths (and Jin in particular), hasn’t ever seemed sadistic. Just angry. Remembering what Namjoon said about Siwoo deserving to be dead, he supposes even that fierce judgement isn’t enough to make hurting the man – over and over and over again – feel good.

“He’s been holding out this whole time?” When Namjoon nods tersely, Jin wonders if it’s perverse to feel vaguely impressed by the person who used to inhabit this sleeve. “Maybe he really just doesn’t have anything to tell you.”

“I’ve thought about it.” The way Namjoon says that, he wishes he could stop thinking about it. “But it doesn’t make sense. How could he not know anything about why you were killed? After all, that girl said Siwoo helped your murderer – he’s refused to even admit that much. Beyond that, the chances of him knowing nothing about his boss working with a Meth? Almost zero. It’s really hard to keep something like that quiet.”

There was truth in that, even on the Meth side. Jin’s heard plenty of scandals that involved Meths dealing with people that they shouldn’t, where they shouldn’t. Just because those scandals elicited inaccurate gossip and little to no repercussions didn’t mean they weren’t known; it just meant they weren’t cared about. After all, a marriage or a baby or a murder on land meant less than nothing to the people in Glass Harbour.

That thought scratches unpleasantly at his mind, and Jin frowns. Namjoon continues, subdued. “If Siwoo won’t get us anywhere – and I’m not sure how much longer any of us can keep trying – that doesn’t leave us with much. Just you.”

His frown deepens, as, distracted from his previous thoughts, Jin tilts his head. “You wouldn’t even tell me about Siwoo four nights ago,” he points out. “Why now?”

Namjoon runs his finger over his bottom lip before he sighs. “Jimin doesn’t agree, and Kookie definitely doesn’t either, but I don’t see what other choice we have. You haven’t exactly been…” He trails off awkwardly, eyes on the uneaten food on the tray.

 _Alive,_ Seokjin thinks with black humor, and enough bitterness to be sipping black coffee, too. “Now that you need me, you’re willing to give a little information. That’s how it is, correct? But I’m guessing it’s still on your terms.” When Namjoon grimaces, Jin laughs, short and sharp. It still doesn’t sound right in his ears. “I’m guessing that means you won’t tell me how you know Junseo.”

“I was serious the other night, Seokjin.” And give it to him, Namjoon sounds extremely serious now. Even grave. “I hadn’t even told the others about it, not until we needed a way to find information on which Meth or Meths were helping to target us. It’s better you don’t know anything about it.” Jin is about to laugh again, but the other man continues. “However, if that’s what it takes to get your help, I’ll tell you.”

This time Namjoon’s eyes do rest on Jin’s face, and it’s his turn to smile, a rueful twist of his lips. “You don’t need to look so shocked.”

“Shocked? No, I’m not shocked. Shocked is falling into one of those electric generators. I’m, uh…” Jin searches for a stronger word to describe the disconcerted sensation, not entirely pleased, that’s tightening his jaw. “I’m _stupefied._ ”

“Is that much different from shocked?” Namjoon asks, and he says it so thoughtfully it’s impossible to tell if he’s teasing or not.

Just in case, Seokjin glares at him, although the effort is half-hearted. “Just like that? You’d just tell me?”

“Not ‘just like that.’ I’ve thought about this a lot, talked it over with the others. Besides,” his volume drops a little, “Jungkook says he thinks he’s seen people hanging around the neighbourhood. Strangers. It could be a coincidence, but Kookie doesn’t imagine things, and he says they look like they’re looking for something.” That should make Seokjin feel _something –_ afraid, nervous, relieved, maybe – but it doesn’t. “If they’re anyone, hired by Meths or from the police or gang members, it’s bad for us, and we need to figure this shit out before they either find us, or make a move.”

Misreading Seokjin’s lack of response to that, Namjoon continues heatedly, “It’s not just bad for us. Your status isn’t going to protect you from people like Rafa. Hell, it didn’t even protect you before. If you’re lucky, you’re gonna end up on ice again, for who the hell knows how long. If not, you’re as dead – permanently – as the rest of us. Your parents obviously can’t or won’t intervene.”

He lets the speech finish before shrugging. “I know all of that, Namjoon.” Those are the thoughts that have been barging into his head, uninvited, for the last few days, and no matter how numb he forces himself to be, no matter how much he shies from them, Jin can’t argue that they have an impact. Even when he’s been successful shoving them away, shielded by the apathy that’s so much easier than anything else, they still hover over him, an almost tangible pressure.

Namjoon’s nails make little clicks as they tap against the tray in his hands. “Then why…?”

“I know I’m done if you don’t figure out what’s going on. I just don’t know if I care.” That’s a bit of honesty he hadn’t even been able to put into words until now, but as he says it, Jin realizes it’s the crux of the matter.

“You don’t care if you’re killed? Forever? Look, I get it’s hard to get the reality through your head when you haven’t had to face it, but your death would be–”

“Real. Permanent. The End. I get it, Namjoon. Whatever you think of Meths, we still have an instinctive fear of dying. Manufactured immortality hasn’t done much to get rid of that.” It was why Meths still rode rollercoasters, did skydiving, got a thrill out of watching horror movies. For all that their circumstances told them otherwise, there was still a visceral conviction in most of the essential immortals, deep below the surface of consciousness, that death hovered just around the corner. Just like anyone.

“Then – what the hell? Why wouldn’t you want to help us, even without me telling you anything?” Namjoon sounds so frustrated, his brow so creased, that in a different time and a different place Jin might have laughed. It’s actually kind of charming, like some kid confronted by a problem with an obvious solution, one they’re not quite getting.

“You already said it. For some reason – some reason my broken brain can’t remember – my parents can’t or won’t intervene. Given the fact that they put a DNR on my stack, my guess is won’t.” Is that the beginning of understanding on Namjoon’s intelligent face? He can’t tell. “Where does that leave me? Even if you somehow get this gang off your backs, get Junseo to back off,” and saying it aloud sounds like a joke, it’s so unlikely, “that doesn’t give me a solution. It doesn’t help me figure out why my parents did this.”

“Maybe… maybe somewhere along the way we find the answer to that, too. Or maybe – I don’t know, maybe Junseo forced them into it, somehow? If we confront Junseo, maybe that fixes your problem, too?” His companion’s doubtful response advertises how out of his depth he feels taking that guess, but really? He’s probably not wrong. Jin’s thought of that. It’s just…

His hands are curled into soft fists. “If that’s true,” Jin whispers, “it doesn’t change the fact that my parents sold me out to him. That they agreed to leave me in a stack without a sleeve. I don’t – I keep trying to think of what I did to deserve it. I’ve never been their most talented kid, I know that, but… I’ve tried. I’ve done well, mostly. So why…”

He knows he’s never seen Namjoon look so awkward, so thoroughly at a loss, but it’s the pity that has him turning back to his own hands, pulling at the overly tight shirt he’s been given. This outfit, courtesy of Namjoon, is a white t-shirt with a dark blue jacket, and the cuffs are perfect to play with instead of looking at anything else. Having never been anything like pitied before, Seokjin is quite incapable of identifying what emotion Namjoon’s compassionate stare has wrenching through his chest, but it’s certainly not a comfortable one.

Nothing’s been really comfortable recently, has it? The funny thing, though, is that everything – the fear of death and pain, the feeling of dislocation, the near-constant panic – is nothing compared to his sense of loss when he thinks about his parents. The grinding, misty confusion that’s slowly crushing his certainty is like nothing he’s ever felt before. Jin’s been uncertain of some things in his life – not a lot, but some – but never of his parents’ affection. Their love. So, where did that leave him now? 

After several seconds that stretch out like gossamer between them, uneasy and breathless, Namjoon breaks the silence. “I’m sorry. I knew that going through this would be hard for you. But I didn’t really think about what you would have to deal with when you got back home.”

“No, you didn’t.” It feels good to say, but the pleasure doesn’t last long enough to be worth it, and the guilty feeling is even worse. Worse, because he still doesn’t know how he should feel about any of this. “I’m – sorry. You’ve been better than I expected.” Maybe even better than he has any right to expect. “I really don’t know if I can help, though. Everything seems so – It’s too much.” He can’t even find it in himself to care much about the promise of information, with everything else smothering him.

Who cared how Namjoon knew Junseo? What did that matter to Jin? Knowing wouldn’t change anything.

It seems like Namjoon wants to say something; he exhales, and when Jin glances at him sidelong, his mouth is open, but he quickly closes it. After another moment, he surprises Jin. “Well, whether you can help or not, you still need to eat. At least try some of this?” And he lifts up the tray again, proffering it tentatively.

For all that the words between them have somehow lightened Seokjin, just a little, the food still looks extremely unappetising. As he hesitates, Namjoon says, “Starving yourself isn’t going to solve the problem.”

A blatantly obvious point, and yet, having someone else tell it to him when his own mental voice has broken down is actually helpful. Jin doesn’t want to give in too easily, though. There’s something stubborn inside dragging its heels. “You’re bothering me about eating, but you look like you haven’t eaten for a few days – and haven’t slept for longer.”

Namjoon huffs, caught between a chuckle and a snort. “Lectured by a Meth,” he says, but there are no sharp edges for Jin’s pride to catch on. “Fine. How about we share this? If we’re still hungry, I’ll make more.” Jin turns partly towards his room, and Namjoon stops him with a sharp shake of his head. “Not in your room. C’mon, let’s eat at the table. I thought Meths were supposed to be civilized?”

There’s something tempting about eating in the kitchen – his longing for normalcy, he supposes, yet another chance to fool himself into complacency – and after hesitating a little longer, Jin relents. “Fine,” he mutters ungraciously, and is too busy frowning and fixing his cuffs to notice Namjoon’s small, relieved grin. Probably a good thing.

He also misses the beginning of Namjoon somehow managing to fumble the tray as he turns, though the flicker of movement jerks Jin’s eyes up. The plastic almost seems to dance in Namjoon’s desperate fingers, and then suddenly it’s falling. Without thinking, Seokjin leaps forward, hands outstretched. All he manages to do is bang his knuckles painfully against the tray and ensure that the dishes are dumped directly onto the other man’s feet instead of on the floor, each with a _thump_. They’re followed by a louder _clang_ as the tray meets the ground, the sound making Jin jump and half-shriek, even though he knew it was coming.

The ensuing silence is deafening. They both stare at the mess of stew and rice strewn about and on (and in) Namjoon’s socks, Jin with his heart beating in his throat, Namjoon with guilty, flustered shock on his face. The pause stretches on and on until it becomes a little more than awkward, and Namjoon shifts uncomfortably, cuing a chain reaction of more rice cascading down his white socks where it doesn’t get stuck in the wet patches.

Very solemnly, fighting the wild laugh aching to burst from his chest, Seokjin declares, “This is karma.” The partly incredulous, partly accusing look Namjoon sends him almost breaks his self-control, but he pushes back the amusement, maintains a straight face and a self-righteous tone. “Your socks are soaked in rice and stew because you kidnapped me.”

Namjoon’s mouth works noiselessly before he starts to sputter, choking on a distorted mix of words, a clash of denial, shock, apology and anger. His expression is so priceless – especially his eyes, wide and scandalized – that Jin brings up his interface watch, casually ignoring his companion’s strangled sounds. A few swift taps later – it really is a simplistic device – and he’s found the app he was looking for. A short second to aim, a little click, and then Jin’s immortalized the moment, the photo hovering on the display above his watch.

It’s only then that Seokjin starts laughing. He laughs so hard that he needs to lean against the wall for balance, half afraid he’ll lurch into the mess on the floor. The laughter feels wrong – sounds wrong, pitches wrong, rolls out wrong, feels _wrong_ – but it’s also the best he’s felt in the last week. Wrong or not, he doesn’t make much of an effort to rein it in. Namjoon’s attempt at pained dignity, stiff shoulders and skin so flushed he could have imitated a tomato and gotten away with it, doesn’t help. If anything, it just exacerbates the almost forced hilarity jarring against the emptiness inside of Jin. Vaguely and far away, he’s surprised the impact doesn’t make a sound, they’re clashing together so hard.

Every attempt to hold back a little – if only to be able to breathe – is an exercise in control that finds him wanting. Gasping, his sides aching, Seokjin eventually manages to wheeze, “It’s not – all bad – you know. Maybe you have some – some good karma too.”

Eyebrows jumping up, Namjoon manages to convey disgusted disbelief without saying a word. Nodding hard, clutching at his sides, Jin heaves in another breath. “Now we don’t need to eat that stuff. Good karma.”

Suddenly, as quickly as the tray had fallen and with less fanfare, Namjoon’s indignation dissolves and he breaks into a grin. Wide, dimpled, a flash of white teeth. A second later and it grows even further, his eyes squeezing shut as he joins in the laughter, albeit without a sound. Unlike Jin, he retains control – and should that really be a surprise? – but his shoulders shake and the way he breathes, stilted exhales and short inhales, makes it obvious the amusement is swelling just behind his warm smile.

“If _your_ karma is good,” Namjoon remarks, “the person who made this won’t be offended by that comment.”

The alarm that ripples through him at the thought of Jungkook being the person in question goes a small way in zapping the wildness out of his laughter. Eyes widening, Jin asks with extravagant meekness, “Who was it? Was it Jimin?” _Please let it be Jimin._

Bending down and gathering the tray and fallen bowls along with what rice he can manage, Namjoon doesn’t reply until he’s straightened up. His lips are still quirked. “It was me.”

_Walked into that one._

His grin, which had dwindled at the prospect of offending Jungkook (even more than his existence already does) widens, and Jin makes a small bow. “I appreciated the effort,” he lies, and honestly, it’s all been pretty bad, but it hadn’t occurred to him that someone had been labouring over the meals. When he’s put any thought to it at all, he kind of suspected it was takeout or something.

Not that he’s ever eaten takeout.

“Nah, you didn’t,” Namjoon amiably disagrees, having no problem pointing out the falsehood. “’Else you would have actually eaten something, instead of making me think you were going to starve to death before we even sorted any of these issues out.” 

Feeling a bit bad at that, Jin straightens, considering. After a moment, he brightens. “How about I make it up to you?”

Namjoon’s head tilts. “How?”

“I’ll make us something a lot better. You, me, Jimin… Jungkook can eat the leftovers.”

Though the other man’s smile grows at that, Namjoon sounds skeptical when he says, “You? Cook a meal?”

Swelling indignantly, Jin declares, “I’m an excellent cook! Definitely better than any of you!” Like that was hard. “Seriously, it’ll let me make up for all the food you’ve made me.” And also give him ample reason to stop eating that same food.

His skepticism hasn’t abated, and more seriously Namjoon asks, “You know how to cook? How?”

That would have been offensive – actually, it _is_ offensive – but Seokjin is determined not to slip back into the stark, exhausted resentment of before. Besides, if he’s being honest, he’s pretty sure he could count the number of Meths who know how to cook on one hand. Possibly on one finger.

“With millions of creds and just as many minutes to spend them, things can get boring, okay? Everyone’s got hobbies.” One of his friends is into breeding penguins – it seems to Jin that his cooking isn’t that weird, in comparison. “A couple years back, I decided I wanted to learn how, and… Well, I did.” When you could afford to hire the best chefs in the galaxy – he’d even had a famous sous chef from Harlan’s World needlecast into a temporary sleeve to teach him in person – you tended to get good quickly.

His mentors also told him he had a knack for it, but he’s been a Meth for too long to know for sure if that was flattery or honesty.

Namjoon is looking at him strangely, mouth a little bit twisted, and Jin can’t really tell what he’s thinking. Yeah, sure, some of his acquaintances had judged him for choosing cooking, of all things – they pointed out that gourmet food was already completely and always available – but surely it wasn’t _that_ strange?

“Millions of creds and millions of minutes, huh?” is what his companion eventually says, and Jin winces, has to force himself not to look down. _Ah. So not the cooking bit. Idiot._ Mentally kicking himself – though not quite confident he’ll remember in the future – he wants to apologize, but… for what? The words, maybe, or choosing to use the words, but that’s not the issue. Not really. And Jin is less sure he wants to apologize for having what he’s had, being what he is.

He’s saved from the struggle when Namjoon shrugs and turns away. Regret is tangible, a taste on Jin’s tongue, but before it can become too sour, the other man calls over his shoulder, “A Meth cooking. This I have to see.”

Shortly after, as Namjoon cleans up the mess in the hallway, Jin finds himself gazing, aghast, at the collection of cooking utensils at his disposal. They only had one kind of peeler! And four knives, none of which seemed specialized! And dear God, the ingredients. Yeah, he’d taken a few one-on-one sessions about cooking with the basics, sans even most of his tech appliances, but apparently Meth basics were at a different level than ordinary people.

_Maybe I was a little harsh about Namjoon’s food…_

“Something wrong?” Namjoon asks from where he’s practically lounging in the kitchen doorway, with an altogether too knowing tilt to his head.

The reply leaps out. “Nothing! Just familiarizing myself with what I have to work with.” _Which is basically nothing._ But if some mere normies could do this, then Jin would bake himself into a quiche before accepting that he couldn’t. “Give me a few minutes and I’ll have an estimate for when it will be ready.”

“You need any help?”

If the burnt stew is anything to go by, Namjoon would probably be more of a disaster than a help. “No, thank you. You go and do your… gangster stuff.”

Namjoon snorts, but quietly, and leaves. It’s not until many minutes later, when Jin’s wielding a knife that seems most practical for chopping potatoes, that he realizes what kind of trust is being placed in him. He’s surrounded by knives (or, well, four), he’s seen cleaning chemicals under the sink, there’s a pretty heavy-weight pan… all possible weapons, and maybe Jin isn’t exactly a natural-born killer, but his body is strong, and besides, you didn’t need to have skill to poison someone with drain cleaner. To be left alone with all of these possibilities… Seokjin can’t tell if it’s an exercise in trust or an exercise in temptation.

When he pokes his head into the hallway, the door to Namjoon’s room is closed, and with Jimin and Jungkook out, it seems as if he’s really being left alone.

Surprised but pleased, he goes back to his work. Jin still doesn’t know what he’s going to do – how much he can help, if he even _should_ – but cooking is an enjoyable distraction, one he’s absolutely grateful to plunge himself into. Better than thinking about his parents abandoning him for reasons he can’t fathom. Better than thinking about the way his chest still aches, sometimes, like it remembers the wound it never had. Better than thinking about the gaping hole in his memory, a blackness in his brain that can’t even remember the experiences he _has_ had.

And besides… he’s already made up his mind. Even if he is a ghost playing at life, he’s going to be the best ghost chef these pavement peasants have ever seen.


	8. Chapter 8

He makes three meals. The first, a pretty meager sausage scramble, his captors eat suspiciously; Jimin and Jungkook have to be prodded by Namjoon to even take a few cautious bites. When a frothing, choking death doesn’t immediately occur, they eat a little more, but the uncomfortable atmosphere at the dinner table is an oppressive weight that even his (spectacular) cooking can’t immediately overcome. Though Seokjin is almost positive he spots regret in the younger man’s eyes, Jungkook excuses himself early, plate only half-finished. Jimin works a little harder, but even he can’t seem to make himself eat it all and offers to clean the kitchen while Namjoon and Jin finish.

(This is actually a relief, because Jin had been ignoring the pile of dishes and utensils in the sink with something approaching horror).

In the morning, Jungkook is thoroughly nonplussed when he stumbles, bleary-eyed, into the kitchen, only to almost run into Jin, who’s doing his level best to make pancakes without flour. The banana substitute is a dismal failure so far as texture is concerned, but at least it tastes good. The trio he’s cooking for seem to agree, if the way the stack of pancakes disappears is anything to go by.

Maybe he’s just in shock to have lived through the night, but Jungkook actually _thanks_ him when Jin passes the butter.

At lunch, Seokjin may not win their hearts, but he’s certain he wins their stomachs. Both Jimin and Jungkook lurk in and out of the kitchen while he’s preparing the food, but it’s not suspicion in their gazes; it’s anticipation. In fact, Jungkook was apparently supposed to meet Yoongi but delayed long enough to eat, which might have something to do with the way he inhales his lunch. When he thanks Jin from the door, one foot shoved into a sneaker and the other one half on, his eyes are so bright they almost shine.

It strikes Seokjin like a sparkler going off in a previously dark room. Blinding and captivating. And when this kid with stars for eyes steps out the door, closing it with a little wave, there’s a chance he might never come back. Who knows what’s lurking out there?

He realizes he’s still staring at the door. Jin shakes his head. Dinner will surely take hours to prepare, right? He should get started. Yeah, he should get started.

When he twists, it’s his turn to almost run over someone. Jimin jumps back, a graceful little skip. Almost simultaneously, the man runs fingers through his thick orange hair, shoving back his bangs in a motion so desultory it’s almost dispirited. Unlike Jungkook, even unlike Namjoon, Jimin is hard to read. He has a pretty smile that comes easily to his lips, but it isn’t as likely to reach his light eyes.

He’s not smiling now, with eyes or otherwise. Just like everyone ghosting through this apartment, Jimin looks tired. “I’ve cleared away the dishes,” he says quietly. “Namjoon-hyung’s washing them now.” For some reason, he grimaces when he says it.

Partly because it’s true, but partly because Jin wants to ease the exhaustion on the other man’s face, he exclaims, “Wow, you’re like an angel! I don’t think I could have done it myself.”

“Done the dishes?” Jimin asks, and giggles at Seokjin’s deliberately baffled expression and shrugged shoulders. “It’s not so hard. There’s –”

A loud clatter in the kitchen, and Namjoon’s reassurance hurries on the sound’s heels. “It’s fine, fine! Nothing’s broken. Good thing it was plastic, though…” That last bit is a mutter, probably not meant for their ears.

Jimin rolls his eyes. “Really, it’s not that hard.”

“Still,” Seokjin replies firmly, “I’m very glad you’re doing it. Thank you.” He doesn’t like the way it feels like he’s thanking Jimin for something else entirely. He doesn’t like the way Jimin’s mouth lifts knowingly, either. But the small man’s shoulders relax, just a little, so maybe it was worth it.

Humble (or pretending to be humble, Jin isn’t sure), Jimin doesn’t linger on the praise. “I’ve got some things to do out of the house.” It’s – strange – to think about that. To think about the fact that even though Jin’s life has slammed to a halt, his captors are still hurtling along. They’re searching for ways to counteract Junseo or take down the ever-growing gang, meeting up with contacts, spying out their enemies’ haunts, pouring over files Yoongi has stolen from Meths and police alike, trying to find a connection or a weakness to exploit. They’re even still running other jobs, as well as they can.

But it hasn’t all been smooth sailing. Jin has heard from Namjoon that the strangers lingering near the apartment haven’t disappeared, and if anything, it’s starting to get hard to move in and out without being seen. Like a net, drawing ever closer around their thrashing limbs.

And meanwhile Jin has been sitting inside, looking pretty and not much else.

Jimin soon provides him with something else to think about. “I’ll have time, so I thought I should ask if you want me to pick up some groceries.” Maybe Jin’s face lights up a trifle maniacally, because he adds warningly, “We can’t afford a bunch of special supplies or whatever. I just thought –”

“You _are_ an angel! A food angel!” The declaration is accompanied by several rapid claps, and Jin is ecstatic, the tingling in his palms a welcome distraction.

At this point, everything is a welcome distraction.

He spends the next few minutes compiling a list of possible ingredients on his omni-watch, and if it’s leaning on the hard side of fantastically optimistic for what Jimin can realistically get, Jin is still hopeful he’ll be able to purchase some of them. It doesn’t occur to him until he finishes that he can’t send the list over; his watch is cut off from connecting with anything. It seems like, no matter how hard Jin tries, he just – can’t forget the reality of the situation. Not for long.

Although, without quite realizing it, he’s been changing the reality of the situation. Jimin’s head tilts, considering, before he does something to his own watch, then reaches over and plays around with Jin’s settings, too. There’s a beep, and they connect, Jin’s heart leaping at the sound.

“I can’t fully unlock it,” Jimin apologizes as Jin’s fingers skim over his interface, sending over the list. “Only Yoongi-hyung can do that.” It’s hard to tell if Jimin would have done it if he could, but even being connected to one other person – just one – makes Jin feel that much less adrift. He wonders if Namjoon would let him access his watch, too. It might be fun to send that picture he’d taken.

A few hours later and Jin is hesitantly prepping dinner, unsure what he should prepare. It kind of depends on what Jimin ends up bringing home. There’s noise at the door, and he hurries into the living room, ready to greet Jimin and take the groceries. His welcoming smile somewhat falters when it’s Jungkook that shoves the door open, closely followed by a person that it takes Jin a moment to register as Yoongi. He’s glad that Jungkook is safe, but the relief is more than swamped by Yoongi’s appearance.

The kitchen is a welcome place to retreat back into, and Jin stares down blindly at the cutting board he was using. He hasn’t seen Yoongi since the first day, and frankly, barely remembers what he looks like; there’s just a vague imprint of annoyed eyes and a small frame. But he remembers his voice, harsh and contemptuous and perfectly pitched to exacerbate Jin’s helpless confusion, and he’s somewhat dismayed at the mixture of resentment and fear tumbling through his guts.

He’d thought those particular maggots had died under his numbness and the slow thawing of his captors. 

“You’re giving him knives now?” Yoongi comments when he enters the kitchen, and Jin’s shoulders hunch before he manages to turn around. Yoongi’s eyes are narrowed on the blade Jin had been (trying) to use to cut up an onion, and he puts it down like the handle is suddenly on fire. He might have made some rejoinder about the knife being too dull to cut air, let alone anything else, but his tongue is tied up in knots and won’t cooperate.

“It’s not a _big_ knife,” Jungkook mutters, and he doesn’t look at either of them when he comes in.

Making an unimpressed clicking sound with his tongue, the small man glares for a moment longer, and Jin shifts, hoping Namjoon will come in soon. Up close, with eyes uninhibited by nausea or panic or recent sleeve shifts, Yoongi shouldn’t be as scary as Jin finds him. He’s as small as memory recalled, with mint green hair that Jin certainly doesn’t remember, and a sort of hunched way of standing, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans, that make him seen even less intimidating. And yet – Jin still hopes Namjoon comes in soon.

He’s distracted from his fear when the other man whistles, a sharp sound, and suddenly a little brown bundle is skittering into the room. Yoongi stoops down and picks it up.

“That’s… a dog?” Jin says, bewildered, and Yoongi sets it on the table with surprising gentleness. Splayed out on its belly and panting happily, the furry thing barks, not that Jin needed the confirmation.

“Can’t get nothin’ by you, huh?” the small man remarks, and in a much softer voice adds, “Holly, sit.” The small dog – four legs and all – does just that, its floppy ears rotating to catch Namjoon’s entrance, and Namjoon doesn’t seem surprised by the presence of the canine. For his part, Jin inches a little closer, unable to rip his eyes from the animal.

Without a greeting, Yoongi says, “I got through. Finally. Get this prick outta here and we can figure out what the hell we do next.” He’s not even looking at Jin, but that tone couldn’t possibly be directed at anyone else, and Jin tries and fails to glare. The hostility is just too present, and besides, what had Yoongi meant when he said he got through? And surely Namjoon isn’t about to send him away? Not after their talk, as inconclusive as it had been?

The tightness that had been seeping away slams back into Seokjin’s stomach, hard enough to be a punch. “I can help!” His hesitance with Namjoon had been sincerity; this assertion is just bravado fueled by spite. There’s something about Yoongi that rubs Jin the wrong way – maybe because he’s never been so instantly and thoroughly hated before, or at least been aware of it – and he doesn’t back down when Yoongi curls his lip at him.

“Help fuck us over, y’mean?”

“He had the chance already. Jungkook told you about the cops. If he was gonna do it, he would have done it then.” Namjoon’s voice is neutral, like pointing out a blue sky, but Jin still feels a rush of gratitude. Gratitude and something else. Satisfaction, maybe? At least Namjoon’s stance is relaxed. Confident. A big improvement from a short time ago.

“That your _educated_ opinion?” It suddenly strikes Jin that Yoongi looks about as beat up as Namjoon. Jin can’t recall many physical details from their last meeting, but no longer suffering from a panic attack and mental disorientation, he thinks the other man can’t possibly look that drained on a normal basis. His voice is even worse than the bruised eyes and pale skin; it grates like metal hitting a hard place, and for all the acid it contains, the vitriol seems to be disintegrating Yoongi more than anyone else.

Namjoon’s words about the difficulty of extracting information from Siwoo replay in his mind. _It’s not easy, and it just gets harder over time._ From what Namjoon had said, while they’ve all taken their turns, Yoongi has been doing it the most, because the VR is set up at his place. No wonder he looks like he recently had a hovercar fall on him. 

Jungkook shifts, biting at his lip, but it’s Namjoon who replies, still calm. “Yeah, that’s my opinion. Maybe we can revaluate later, but for now, I’d like to hear what you found out.”

There’s no immediate response, Yoongi staring daggers – not at Jin, but at his own hands as they slowly pet the dog. After a few moments, just as Jungkook opens his mouth, a new voice pipes up. A voice Jin has never heard before. A soft, playful, feminine voice. “Aw, come on, Yoongs.”

It’s coming from the dog.

Jin is the only one who jumps, a slight gasp slipping out. The dog flicks an ear at the noise, but otherwise ignores him. Its muzzle isn’t moving, but the sound is definitely coming from it. “Namjoon is making sense, and besides, you know we’re going to need help. Let me show them?” When Yoongi still hesitates, the teddy-bear like animal wriggles forward, butts her head into the man’s chest, and he automatically resumes petting her. “You’re just being stubborn.” She – it? – sounds chiding, but also… sad.

The surrender happens so seamlessly, it’s almost like he hadn’t been resisting in the first place. Yoongi digs in his hoodie’s pocket, withdraws something and throws it on the table next to Holly. A palm-sized device, chromatic silver with a glowing blue interior trapped within a network of crisscrossing lines, like sterling arteries wrapped around an azure heart. A stack. Siwoo’s stack, maybe? Yoongi had dropped it as though it were garbage, but now Jin is caught between gaping at the dog and at the stack. At least he’s seen a stack before, but still, it’s… there’s a life jammed within that shining, vaguely hexagonal object. Had Siwoo been in pain when they had pried it from the back of his neck?

From the back of _this_ neck? Unconsciously, Jin rubs his fingers against the base of his skull, feeling the tell-tale bump of his own stack under the skin. Suddenly, he doesn’t want to look at Siwoo’s anymore.

Unaware – or maybe uncaring – of Seokjin’s reaction, Yoongi gestures shortly at the dog. “Go ahead.”

Her tail starts wagging. “Excellent. First –”

Which is when the frozen pieces of Jin’s brain snap back into motion (with debateable effectiveness) and, preferring to focus on the more outlandish (and less painful) oddity in the room, he blurts, “You’re an AI? In a – is that a real body?”

She – the dog – swivels towards him, her mouth slightly open, tongue lolling out in what can only be described as a grinning expression. Though the curly furred animal is actually pretty close to absolutely adorable, it doesn’t do much to diminish the mounting shock as she continues to talk, blithely unaware of the seven thousand Protectorate rules her existence is breaking. “As real as your own body, mhm. Yoongs is right – you are a sharp one. I’m Holly. It’s a pleasure.”

“But.” There really doesn’t seem to be much more to say. He knows this group is not exactly law-abiding, but… an AI in a real body? Is it even under contract?

“Scared I’m considering world domination now that I have legs to walk with?” She’s amused at his surprise, but that’s _exactly_ what people are afraid of. Most AIs – all legal AIs – are tied to one place, at least in the physical sense, and absolutely bound by contractual codes. Connected to a computer, a room, even a building, some of them, like those creepy hotels. You didn’t give an artificial intelligence the ability to walk around, to physically access other AIs, to make changes on the physical plane. Jin’s not a history buff, but even he knows about the Annihilation on the planet Khazdaren.

Although at least this goes a long way in explaining just how Yoongi could be such a successful hacker. If that thing isn’t bound by Protectorate law…

She must read his expression – which is scary in itself. “Nothing to be scared of.” He might beg to differ. “I happen to be very fond of humans.” Doubtful. “Oh, it’s true. My programming is entwined with that of my host body; all of the impulses it feels, the basic fear and joy, I feel, too. The loyalty is very much a factor in my relationship with Yoongi.”

“I’m sure the treats have nothing to do with it,” Yoongi observes dryly, but his tired eyes soften when he rubs her ears, and her tail wags even faster.

“They might have something to do with it,” Holly admits, cheerfully unrepentant. “That, and the fact that I can’t get out of this body.”

Though her tone is light, his face darkens. “I’m working on it,” he says, and it sounds more like a promise than a protest.

She barks, the high sound a strange contrast to her voice. “I know you are. You’ll figure it out.” Obviously, Jin’s befuddled expression hasn’t entirely cleared, because Holly adds, “Yoongs found me, years ago. A Meth – do you know Karen Tanner? Oh, you do. Well, she had me made. Spent a lot on me, put in tons of security measures, but all she wanted was a pet. A smart one. Thing is, though, Meths get bored, and… well, Yoongs found me!” Her bright voice doesn’t hide her wilting ears, but his fingers are a steady presence and they soon perk back up.

None of the information is at odds with what he’s heard. He knows Karen, vaguely, and rules are about as firm as wet noodles for her – just like they are for most Meths. Honestly, if she were keeping a careful watch on the AI, he wouldn’t have thought there was anything wrong with it. The way Holly leaps over the story makes him suspect ‘found’ might be a synonym for ‘stole,’ but if Karen wasn’t vigilant enough to prevent a theft by some Curve hacker, she almost deserved it.

“Haven’t yet figured out how to override my security measures to get out of this body. Which is fine! I’ve been living with Yoongs for a long time now, and with Jungkook visiting a lot, I –”

“Come on, Holly. Let’s not waste our time giving him your life story.” That could have been phrased as a deliberate jab, but Jin’s not sure enough to make an objection. It also seems like it could have been a very hurried redirection. Given that it came from Yoongi, it was probably the former, only the man is actually blushing, and so is Jungkook, so maybe… He wants to hear Holly’s life story, particularly the Jungkook bit, but saying that probably won’t earn him any brownie points. Not that he’s looking for those. He could make better brownies than Yoongi could give, anyways.

“But it’s such an _interesting_ story,” Holly says, and she yips a moment later, as though to emphasize the point. When Yoongi just eyes her flatly, she noses at the stack beside her. “Fine. Namjoon, do you want to see the full clip?”

Both he and Jungkook have been nodding along to Holly’s explanation, as if a talking dog is the most usual thing in the world – and even in Meth circles, it’s really not – but now Namjoon pauses, frowning. For some reason, his eyes go to Jin. After a moment of consideration, he shakes his head. “How about you just play the audio?” 

With a little mechanical hum that has nothing dog-like about it, Holly acquiesces. As Jin is wondering why they don’t want to see the clip, the audio begins. Yoongi’s voice slides into the room, but this is another Yoongi, one that even Jin hasn’t had turned on him. His words are so detached that they sound more like a synthetic recording. “Hey, Siwoo. Let’s get right into it, okay? Do you want me to do it again? I never really thought fingers were that important, anyways.”

“Please…” another person gasps, and a breathless feeling invades Seokjin’s throat. It’s his voice, his – Not _his_ voice, but this sleeve’s voice. He hadn’t even thought about it, but it makes sense. Of course Siwoo would appear in VR in the sleeve he’s most comfortable with. You always materialize in the form you most consider _you_ , unless the VR is specifically designed to be otherwise.

Namjoon is still watching him.

There’s a cracking sound, barely audible, but the screaming that follows is more than loud enough. Seokjin can feel the blood sinking from his face, leaving him lightheaded, his own fingers curling into rigid claws. It isn’t until the high cries morph into broken, frantic sobbing that Yoongi’s voice cuts back in. “Y’might not have noticed, but I broke it a lot closer to your hand, this time. I figure we make a game out of it. How many times can I break each one before there’s just nuthin’ left to break?”

More sobbing, and with his eyes plastered to the table, Jin doesn’t notice that Yoongi has joined Namjoon in the other’s quiet observation. Nor does he notice Yoongi’s hand, latched to his own neck so hard it almost looks like he’s trying to strangle himself one-handed. There are more gruesome sounds and Jin slowly sinks into himself, that choked feeling growing closer and closer to nausea. There’s an immediate part of his imagination that can picture himself – all too well – in this exact situation. If things had been just a little different, if they’d thought they could get something out of him through VR, this might have been him.

But there’s something far more visceral and horrified ripping up his stomach, too. The man keeps begging for Yoongi to stop, and he just… doesn’t. Just keeps going, and going, and going, and –

“Holly,” Namjoon suddenly says, the snap of his voice making all of them flinch, his volume easily riding over the current round of pleading. “Skip directly to the point where he reveals information.”

The audio slams to a halt, leaving the kitchen silent but for the ragged breathing coming from Seokjin and Yoongi. Their shuddering gasps rub shoulders with more familiarity than Jin or Yoongi ever will, unified in their disturbed reactions. Jungkook is the first to move, sliding with diffident care to Yoongi’s side and slowly urging his fingers away from his neck. They leave a swath of angry red.

Namjoon is not far behind in mirroring Jungkook, and he walks to Jin’s side robotically, stands there with his hands tapping nervous patterns against his jeans. “You okay?” he asks, low and strained, and this time Jin doesn’t have a joke ready. He doesn’t have anything ready, actually, and a sudden yearning strikes him as he watches Jungkook and Yoongi entwine their fingers before pulling the intimate gesture under the table. His own fingers, even more crooked than usual, look grotesque by comparison. Untouchable.

He nods, barely a jerk, and Namjoon doesn’t mimic Jungkook a second time.

On the table, Holly has collapsed onto her belly, her short tail curled as far as it will go between her legs. A whine escapes her before she says, “Oh, I’m so sorry, Yoongi. I forgot you humans don’t like this. Namjoon said play the audio and I’m sorry, I should have realized…”

Heaving in a breath in much the same way as someone forced to inhale sulfurous fumes, Yoongi mumbles, “S’not your fault.” Clumsy, his hand gropes forward, burying itself in her brown fur. It’s hard to tell who finds more comfort in the gesture. “Just – just play it, okay?”

Obedient to her owner’s – friend’s? – wishes, the humming noise is repeated, and this time Siwoo’s uneven voice is the first to begin. “…said it was a disk. Junseo wanted it.” In her eagerness to make up for the accident, it looks like she’d gone a bit too far, but Jin’s the last person to want to ask for a rewind.

On the recording, Yoongi asks, “A disk? And what the fuck is that?”

Jin knows the answer before Siwoo replies. “It’s – old tech. I really don’t know much about it, about – I swear I don’t.” There’s a deadly pause, and Siwoo continues more frantically. “It’s flat and round, with a little – there’s a hole in the middle! It’s – David says it stores information, like an omni-device, bu– but it’s only physical, it’s not connected to the net or nothing. It can’t connect to the net.”

“You serious? What piece of junk can’t connect to the net?”

“I’m not lying! It’s – really old. That Meth guy, that – Seokjin, or whatever the fuck his name is. He collects them or something, some weird hobby.”

“A Meth collecting useless shit… I’m not surprised.” That’s more a mutter, and it doesn’t even touch Jin as Yoongi refocuses. “Okay, so you shoot the asshole and take the disk. Why? What was on it?”

“I don’t know.”

“You sure about that?”

“I’m sure, I’m sure, I swear I don’t –”

The audio cuts off into a haze of static, and it takes Jin a dull moment to realize what Holly is omitting for their benefit. He can’t really be relieved.

When it picks up again, it’s obvious that Siwoo has been crying – is still crying, little whimpers that fill the air of the kitchen with heavy pressure. But apparently Yoongi’s been convinced of his sincerity. “…the Meth wanted it. Said we couldn’t kill the guy carrying it, not RD, but otherwise it did– didn’t matter. The – Seokjin went to the Ring a lot, talked to a lot of – of people there. Meths. It wasn’t hard…”

Siwoo is still talking, and Jin hears him, but he’s also beginning to flicker out of himself. By now, the sensation is familiar, a numbness tangling through his chest and forcing his beating soul out, where it listens to Siwoo’s story, a heart without a home.

They’d found out Jin was looking for information about certain Meths, though he’d been cagey about just what kind of information he was after. Using that, pretending to know something, they’d set up a meeting outside the Ring, in the alley that Jin can still smell, sometimes, when he closes his eyes. He’d been with Tae at the Ring, had left him behind for the meeting, and though Jin had realized something was wrong before entering the alley, they’d claimed someone would RD his friend if he didn’t go deeper in. They’d shot him then, taken the disk, left him watering pavement that could never flower with his blood.

No, Siwoo didn’t know what was on the disk. They didn’t have a machine necessary to extract its data, and besides, he’d been taken shortly after. They might have figured it out by now, how could he know? They might or might not still have the disk, but how could he know? Maybe they gave it to the Meths already. Maybe not. Rafa had seemed interested in finding out the information the disk contained before handing it over, the better to use it for leverage, but maybe things had changed.

How could he know?

When it’s over, the rest of the men begin to talk, mulling over how the information changes things – if it changes things at all. Namjoon is of the opinion that Rafa still has the disk, and that the party is a kind of closing of negotiations, while Jungkook suggests it’s just a solidifying of their alliance, now that they’ve handed the disk over. Yoongi keeps his head down and his thoughts more or less to himself, piping up only to clarify something that Siwoo had said. They don’t forget about Jin – there are spots in the conversation that are welcoming pauses, spaces left open for him to insert himself – but he’s too busy trying to figure out his own part in this play. Their looks make him feel like an actor shoved on stage without a script.

What information had he been searching for? Something for his parents or siblings? Was it a side project he’d taken on himself? He does that from time to time, to keep from being bored, but what would it have been? Something important enough to kill for, obviously, but… why not just RD him? He’s aware that plenty of Meths have dirty laundry they’d rather not have aired to the rest of their society, but if Jin had stumbled onto something of that caliber, why not get rid of him? Why specifically kill him, but not permanently? He’s more than a little sure that Taehyung’s dad wouldn’t have any moral compunctions about ordering someone to go all the way, so–

“Seokjin?”

He blinks, blinks again, realizes Jungkook had asked him something. “Sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

Yoongi snorts, but for once Jungkook isn’t jumping on the ‘let’s mock Meths’ bandwagon. He’s got a very intense, focused expression on his face, and it occurs to Jin that Jungkook is latching onto this new information in much the same way a shipwreck survivor clutches at a piece of flotsam. “I asked, what did the disk have on it?”

Seokjin throws up his hands. “Maybe you did take a positive thinking class. I haven’t been able to remember anything else, but you think I’ll remember this?” It’s not until he’s done talking that he realizes how defensive he sounds. Not to mention feels.

Still taking infrequent nibbles at his lip, the dogged expression not flagging, Jungkook says, “Well, what do you normally have on them?”

“It depends,” Seokjin replies warily, ready for someone to jump in with a joke at his expense. “I usually just find and repair them, see what they contain.” Could he explain the excitement of first slipping a disk into a drive, not knowing what’s going to pop up on the computer screen? It’s an excitement of newness, but of discovering the old, too, and it makes Jin feel like those explorers that stopped having anything to explore on Earth centuries ago. He doubts they’ll understand. “It’s – there are some really interesting things on them. Old music, videos, sometimes files of information or programs or games.”

They’re all regarding him dubiously, even Namjoon. He says, “And you… collect these?”

The why is implicit, and Jin flushes. “It’s a hobby. Just something fun to do, to pass the time. Like learning how to cook.”

Holly speaks, her mouthless voice still disconcerting. “So, you found the disk, and it’s something the Meth wants?”

He hesitates, shakes his head. “I… really doubt it. I’ve never found anything that’s useful in a direct way, or dangerous to my – to the Meths.” The word ‘acquaintances’ had fled from his tongue, and Jin doesn’t know if it’s because of a fear of poisoning it, or because it’s already poisoned. “More likely, I stored data on it; you can find blank ones, sometimes, and I have the programs and hardware to put information on them.”

There’s a pause before Jungkook asks, “What information?” It’s not asked like he expects an answer, and Jin doesn’t have one to give, anyways.

“Why would you put something that Junseo wants on some archaic technology?” Namjoon persists, and that’s another really good question.

They’re all silent while Seokjin tries to wrangle that answer, which at least doesn’t require his recent memory. Or so he hopes. Jin _likes_ playing around with disks, but would that have anything to do with it? Probably not. Why on a disk? They’re relatively fragile, easy to scratch or crack or destroy entirely. Not exactly a premium device to store important information on, especially not compared to a net account, which could hold it indefinitely without being damaged. The ancient things didn’t even connect to the net, for God’s sake! Why –

His eyes abruptly narrow, head tilting, and his gaze falls on Siwoo’s stack sitting, abandoned, on the table. Why would he use something that doesn’t connect to the net? The answer comes a second later, riding on wave of ice-cold realization. Because, under certain circumstances, information can be taken from net accounts. Hacked, skimmed, stolen… Except that no one could have stolen anything from Jin’s account. He’d sell his soul on that. They’re not the wealthiest of families, but certainly wealthy enough, and Jin’s parents had invested heavily in security measures. Extremely heavily. That Yoongi had somehow hacked into a police precinct was impressive; if he hacked into the Kim accounts, it would be a miracle. 

Which meant Jin hadn’t been worried about someone on the outside stealing what he knew.

With a mouth that feels numb, he relays the revelation. His three companions stare at him again, and Jin doesn’t know if it’s worse to not be believed, or to have them accept this so readily, like it doesn’t surprise them at all.

“Y’were scared your family would sell you out,” Yoongi says with a slight, mocking chuckle that makes Jin’s fingers twitch. “Figures. Knew you guys didn’t give a shit about us, but you’re fucking assholes to each other, too, huh?” His mouth screws up like he wants to spit, though all he ends up repeating is, “Figures.”

“I’ve heard Meth politics are brutal,” Namjoon notes objectively, and for once Jin can only look at him, feeling no sense of connection. No sense of understanding.

His family… Did it boil down to that? Brutal politics? Somehow that doesn’t match with the pictures in his head, the feelings in his heart. He – his parents didn’t view him coldly. They weren’t the most affectionate, not like the shows he watched, but with seventeen kids, and more likely in the future, he’d never expected them to conform to a cookie-cutter mold of love. What his parents were – everlasting, always, ever growing but never growing older – had made them view outsiders dispassionately, Jin knew that. But it wasn’t the same with their family, who were equally engrained with immortality. It wasn’t.

But who else could he have been protecting the information from? Not his siblings; they didn’t have security override privileges. Neither did the aids. Only his parents.

“Where does that leave us?” Yoongi is asking the room at large, but Jin tunes him out. Us? What did he care about ‘us’? Where did any of this leave _him_?

“If we know that Seokjin’s parents might have been operating–”

There’s a knock at the door.

For an extended moment, as literally no one reacts, Jin thinks he might be hearing things. Maybe this is it. Maybe that last disclosure, piled on everything else, has turned out to be too much from him. He’s snapped. Lost his grip. Next he’ll be chasing the moon or–

Holly starts barking, shattering the frozen picture. As one, they dash out of the kitchen, crowd into the living room. There they balk, eyeing the door like they expect a group of CTAC to come smashing through it. And maybe they do; at least for his part, Jin’s heart is so high in his throat it’s suffocating him, and there’s a reverberation in his ears as though they’re already catching the whizz and impact of bullets. Holly’s sharp yap is doing nothing to help soothe the tension.

“Aish, quit it,” Yoongi snaps, and immediately she subsides, wilting apologetically. Somehow, the silence is worse.

The knocking comes again, making them all jump, and Namjoon is the first one to brave close proximity to the door. They have a simple surveillance monitor set up next to it, probably the best piece of tech they even have in the apartment, and Namjoon flicks the power button. A moment later and the screen comes on, appallingly grainy, making Jin privately think they shouldn’t have been mocking him for his disks. This thing looks like it came from around the same century. However, after a moment the image resolves itself.

Jin gasps. Now, when it doesn’t matter, he stops himself from saying the name that’s dodged the heart still lodged in his throat and is attempting to hurtle off of his tongue.

That doesn’t stop a furiously frowning Jungkook from shoving Jin’s shoulder, stabbing his finger in the direction of the kitchen. Jin ignores the unspoken order, his head craning to see around Jungkook’s muscular frame.

On screen, Tae finally spots the camera, gives it a little wave. “Uh, hello!” He’s wearing a small, friendly smile, his eyebrows pulled into excited arches, and that, paired with his immaculate, sweeping white coat, is incongruous with the weathered landing he’s standing on. “I’m here to visit my friend, Seokjin!”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now we be switching PoVs for a little bit! If you're still reading this, let me know what you think?

He knows the value of cool thinking in dire situations, but, staring at that beaming face, for the first time in a long time Namjoon feels himself at a complete loss. Without turning from the screen, he also knows his companions are in a similar state. Maybe worse. Jungkook will be freezing, freezing in the automatic way that’s a perfect mixture of preparedness and loosening of muscles, ready to react to anything. Ready to react, but not to make a decision. Holly is uttering a garbled mixture of growls and whines under her breath, instincts too strong for even the AI to overthrow, and she’s been a conduit for Yoongi’s emotions for a long time now. If she is freaking out, then most likely he’s succumbing to anxiety.

As ever, that makes it – easier, somehow. Easier to step into a space that no one is occupying, than trying to push himself through a crowd. Circumstances have made Namjoon a leader far more than inclination – circumstances, and, perhaps, a bit of skill – and once again he steps up to the challenge simply because no one else does.

A question jars unpleasantly at the back of his mind. Namjoon doesn’t really want to give it any due weight, but he can’t think of any other way this Meth, the one from the Ring, could have found them. “Seokjin,” he says, voice devoid of the emotion that wants to erupt through, “did you lead him here?” Although, truth be told, he can’t think how the man could have managed it, either, and, even worse, he can’t imagine why Jin would want to. 

The sputter from behind reminds Namjoon that, for all that he can count on Yoongi and Jungkook’s reactions, Seokjin is a wildcard. The sheer level of indignation in this situation is ridiculous, comic, laughable… and because of that, he can’t help but think it’s sincere, too. Or is he just letting himself believe that because he doesn’t want to believe anything else? “I didn’t do anything! One of you must have done something! Got seen by the people who’ve been around or something.”

It’s the wrong question to ask, anyways. _How_ is, for the moment, secondary to _why._ “Can you think of a reason he’d be at our doorstep, then?” Namjoon asks, and risks a glance over his shoulder. Yoongi has dodged behind the couch, one hand pulling at his ear, the other holding a trembling Holly to his chest. Jungkook, white lipped, is hesitating by Jin, caught between getting the Meth out of sight and staying by Namjoon. He’ll stay, Namjoon knows; Kookie has never been the type to abandon others, even when it’s the smarter thing to do. And Seokjin…

Far from showing any kind of relief, the Meth’s face is a stiff mask of horror and fear. He looks so overwhelmed Namjoon is a little surprised he’d even managed to answer the first time, but he’s also – reassured. Namjoon’s instincts tell him that it’s not the face of someone who was expecting a visit, and he’s learned to trust his instincts. In fact, Seokjin is clearly losing his mind with stress, and Namjoon’s surprised again when the Meth manages to get out a second answer. “No, I – It can’t be for Junseo. Not if Taehyung knows I’m here. He wouldn’t sell me out.”

That concrete certainty in the face of danger would be more reassuring if Namjoon was more familiar with Seokjin’s character evaluation abilities, but he sounds very confident. Terrified, but sure of his friend. Even if Namjoon believed it, though, there’s still the issue of this Taehyung selling _them_ out, even if he wouldn’t do it to Seokjin.

There’s another series of raps on the door, Taehyung’s head tilted expectantly onscreen. His voice follows. “Uh, I don’t want to be rude or anything, but I… kinda know you’re in there. Open up, please?”

Fear, dread, paralyzing indecision – they’re all old companions for Namjoon. Polite companions, who back off when he takes a deep breath. “Jungkook, go to the side of the door,” he orders, and, eager for the direction, the younger man complies. He might complain or argue at the discussion table, but not now. “When I open it, pull the Meth in immediately, and I’ll close the door behind you.”

Not that the plank of wood would stop bullets – or even a very determined push – but it’s better than nothing.

Besides, they can’t just ignore him and hope he goes away. If Seokjin is right and he’s not a direct threat, trying to ignore him could turn him into one. And if Seokjin is wrong and he is a threat, someone who’s brought the police or a personal Meth force, they’re screwed either way. Better to have a hostage, in that case.

“Yoongi, can you cover Seokjin?” The pale man manages a jerky nod, pulling out the modified propulsion gun he always has with him. Namjoon only hopes he’s not going to have a case of itchy trigger finger, and that makes him hesitate. He doesn’t want to see Seokjin get shot without a very good reason.

Or at all, though that’s a piece of honesty best left for later.

Seokjin makes a sound, maybe a protest at being threatened, and Namjoon looks at him sharply, banishing the concern and adopting composure in its place. “Stay where you are. This is just a precaution. If you’re right, it’ll be fine.”

_If you’re right._

At first Namjoon thinks the Meth is staring at him pleadingly with those too-wide eyes, except then he realizes his gaze is slipped by him, resting on the monitor. On it, Taehyung is beginning to fidget. “…please don’t hurt him,” Seokjin says, a strained whisper. “Please.”

It reminds Namjoon of things he’d rather forget, makes him feel things he can’t afford to feel in this situation. A promise rises to his lips – and stays there, anchored into silence by a weight far heavier than any obligation he may feel he has towards Seokjin. There are people in this room who deserve his protection far more than the Meth. Tightening his jaw, Namjoon turns to Jungkook. “Ready?” The other man nods.

The plan works far more seamlessly than Namjoon’s thundering heart gives it credit for. He flings the door open. Jungkook grabs the startled Meth and drags him inside. Namjoon slams the door shut. Easy. No bullets, no blood, no screaming, no death.

 _Not yet, anyways,_ a voice whispers, but it too is an old acquaintance, one brushed off with only a modicum of effort.

Jungkook hauls the Meth (protesting) further from the door before pushing him face first against a wall. Just like Namjoon taught him, he begins searching the man’s clothes for any weapons, ignoring anything else in favour of that. Namjoon scans the monitor for any flicker of motion that might suggest someone’s reacting outside to the abduction, but there’s nothing there. Just the landing, as empty as it always is.

When he turns his attention back to Jungkook, he’s forced the Meth around, back pressed into the wall – no weapons, then. The Meth has stopped protesting altogether, and Namjoon might have assumed that was fear or, more ominously, patience, except he’s staring at Seokjin with a tentative smile that’s clearly struggling to survive under the other Meth’s anxious expression. Yoongi hasn’t lowered his weapon, so Namjoon supposes Seokjin could be forgiven for the frozen reaction.

“Alright –” he begins to say, just as Taehyung says, “Jin!” and Namjoon falls quiet, glad enough to let the other man talk and more than a little nonplused that he could identify Seokjin so immediately.

After glancing at Namjoon uncertainly, Taehyung continues. “Hyung, I’m so glad I found you! I thought – I was sure you were here, but I didn’t know if – if anything had happened. I’m just so glad to see you!”

There are definitely tears gathering in Seokjin’s eyes; his voice is wet with them. “You can tell it’s me?”

Taehyung doesn’t seem to entirely understand the implication. “Who else would it be? Of course I know it’s you!” Abruptly, like he isn’t being shoved into a wall and there isn’t a gun being pointed at his friend’s head, he smiles, a boxy grin. “You can’t hide an ego like yours, hyung. Not even in another skin.”

Jin laughs, seemingly in spite of himself, more a nervous giggle than anything. “I thought – I thought it was my good looks shining through.” Taehyung also laughs, far deeper and far more relaxed than his Meth counterpart.

With that, Namjoon finds himself convinced of something; Seokjin didn’t have anything to do with Taehyung’s unwanted appearance. The exchange is just too sincere, Seokjin’s laughter too cracked, to be anything else. He’s been wrong before, but, relief blossoming through his veins, Namjoon allows himself to accept this as truth. Seokjin hadn’t betrayed them. Namjoon hadn’t made a mistake in telling him so much last night.

Sometimes, the truth of a fact is less important than its impact. That’s a dangerous reality, one that Namjoon has wielded as a weapon on more than one occasion, but today, for this, he’s going to let himself – cautiously – believe. To trust in himself, and maybe even trust in Seokjin.

At the very least, it will let him focus on one threat instead of dividing his attention.

“Holly, can you see if he has anything on him? Is he connecting to anything outside?” At his question, the AI flops her ears, leaning against Yoongi’s leg and staring intently at the Meth. He returns her examination with a bewildered kind of interest, stiffening just slightly.

After a moment, she gives a shrug. “His system is complicated –” as expected of a Meth, “but I don’t think so.” Her light voice is remarkably devoid of tension now that Yoongi has calmed a bit down. “There’s definitely no active broadcast right now.” At least that’s a small mercy. 

“Can you watch the monitor? And let us know if you intercept any communications?” Holly glances at Yoongi and the hacker makes a jerky gesture. She immediately pads to the door, takes a seat in front of it. Taehyung’s head tilts, watching the dog, but he doesn’t react as strongly as Seokjin did to the rogue AI. Distracted by other things, maybe. “We’ll bring this into the kitchen. And, Yoongi? You don’t need to keep pointing that at Seokjin.”

Unlike Jungkook, Yoongi doubts. He doubts very strongly, if his scowl is anything to go by. But, met with Namjoon’s smooth belief, his distrust falters, fades. It doesn’t disappear – it rarely does when strangers are around, with Yoongi – but still, he holsters his gun, and that’s enough for Namjoon. Four years ago, and the small man wouldn’t even have agreed to that much, and given what he’s been through, it’s a miracle he’s come so far.

They troop into the kitchen, Taehyung scaring Jungkook (and Namjoon) by bounding forward suddenly. It’s not an escape attempt, though; the tall Meth just takes the opportunity to hug Seokjin, who returns the gesture with a fierceness that he hasn’t shown much before. Eventually Taehyung pries himself away and draws back, observing Seokjin with a frank intensity that has the other Meth shifting, flushed and seemingly even closer to tears than before. After a moment, a look of intense sympathy, nearly grief, spasms across Taehyung’s face, there and gone so quickly Namjoon almost misses it.

Expression clearing like clouds driven from the sky, he pats Seokjin on the shoulder before settling into the nearest chair, beaming despite Yoongi’s muffled grumble. Even when his gaze lands on the stack, abandoned on the table in their previous scramble, the look doesn’t falter.

Just as before, in the face of that smile, it’s hard for Namjoon to remember everything he has to, about alertness, about suspicion, about caution. It’s a smile that begs to be trusted.

Which inclines Namjoon to trust it less. Who smiles like that in the face of unfriendly kidnappers? Seokjin sure as hell hadn’t. He doesn’t sit down. None of them do, although Jin stays very close to his friend. Moving further into the room, Namjoon gathers his thoughts. “Alright,” he says slowly, “now that that’s over with… I take it you’re Taehyung?”

The man nods eagerly. “Kim Taehyung, yup! It’s nice to meet you, Namjoon!”

Though unease leaps in scaly fear through his chest, he keeps his face impassive. “We haven’t met. How do you know my name?” _How do you know about any of this?_

“Oh, are you worried? You don’t need to be. Your friend at the bar – um, it was Arven, right? – he told me about you!”

“You’re lying,” Jungkook snaps before Namjoon can thoroughly consider that. “Arven wouldn’t tell someone like you anything about us!”

“Like me…?” Taehyung looks uncertainly at Seokjin.

He shrugs. “Like us, TaeTae. Meths.”

Taehyung’s expression first falls, and then lifts into one of affront. “But I’m not like most of them!” Both Jungkook and Yoongi snort at that, and Namjoon wishes Jimin was here. He doesn’t blame Jungkook or Yoongi for their hostility, far from it, but managing that while trying to conduct an interrogation is tiresome. Of course… Jimin has his own problems. Relying on him too much might be doing him a real disservice, but it’s just that the collected man is so easy to rely on.

_Unless you put too much on him and he crumbles._ Another thing to worry about, but not right now. Right now, he has to focus on damage control. Just because he also doesn’t believe Arven would willingly tell this Meth anything doesn’t mean he wants to get him riled up about it.

It seems he has something of an ally in Seokjin. “They don’t know you, Tae. They don’t know what you’re like – how could they?” That seems to calm his friend down. It strikes Namjoon that, while Jin is willing to let Tae distance himself from the Meths, he’s never said the same for himself. Never tried to say he’s anything else, except, perhaps, to avoid the scorn of some of Namjoon’s companions.

It’s hard to know how to feel about that.

“Well… I guess that’s true.” The smile is back, albeit a bit dimmer than before. “I’m not lying, though. Arven told me your name. And yours, Jungkook.” As the protests start growing again, Taehyung raises his voice, just a little. “Would it help if I said he wouldn’t tell me exactly where you lived? I had to hire a bunch of people to look for you, and it took forever.”

“Those people who’ve been outside our apartment – those are yours?” Taehyung nods. The fact that they’re not from the police or Junseo could be a good thing… or not. Though his aching shoulders yearn to loosen, Namjoon is still too tense for that. “And just how did you know to look for us in the first place?”

“Well, when you and Jungkook and hyung came to the Ring, and hyung called my name, I kinda… figured it out? I told Drayton and I think he believed me, but he got upset about it or something and left right away and I had to ask around by myself.” Seokjin’s face is more illuminating than Taehyung’s sketchily open expression; unlike the rest of them, he looks neither surprised nor skeptical about this revelation. He actually looks painfully relieved. His full lips have fallen open a little, almost like he’s trying to breathe in Taehyung’s presence, and his hand is hovering over the other’s shoulder. Afraid to touch him and find nothing there, maybe?

Namjoon hates how directly responsible he is for that uncertainty. He is well aware how much of a bitch it is to awaken in an unfamiliar sleeve after being killed. The displacement, the confusion, the conflict between what your body was and what your mind is. And he’s never woken up to discover he’s been taken from everything he knows, to be held by people who may or may not wish him ill. In that light, the subtle trembling that’s taken over Seokjin’s hand, the breathless fear, the rapid blinking… it all seems pretty reasonable.

Distracted. He’s letting himself be distracted, and Yoongi is speaking into the gap. “Like hell you looked at three strangers and thought to yourself, ‘Hey, y’know what one of them looks like? Some dead guy I knew.’” Taehyung frowns, an expressive slope of displeasure, and Namjoon curses himself. He really can’t afford this.

“One, I _knew_ he wasn’t dead, just his sleeve,” Taehyung replies sharply, ticking it off a finger. “Two, it had nothing to do with what he looked like. Not on the outside. But your insides don’t change when you sleeve hop, and I was pretty sure I recognized Jin.” 

Coming from Seokjin, that would have summoned a harsh response. Namjoon is ready to intercede this time, only to have Yoongi look down, shifting in a way that not-so-coincidentally makes him rub shoulders with Jungkook. That’s odd enough, but Taehyung is regarding the hacker with bright interest, the frown already gone. What had he asked before? If Namjoon was worried? That’s when it clicks.

“You’ve got empathy implants?” he asks, slowly, testing out the words to see if they make sense.

They do, apparently. Seokjin nods while Taehyung grins. “Uh-huh. I wasn’t absolutely sure I’d read hyung – you guys dragged him out of there so quickly.” The reproach in his voice is exaggerated enough to have its own part in a drama, and it ignores their sudden discomfort. “But the more I thought about it, the more certain I was, so I started asking around about you three. The pink hair helped. It’s really cool, by the way.”

It’s an innocuous compliment, delivered innocently – and somehow, it actually touches Namjoon. Makes a shy smile pry at the corners of his stony lips. He wrestles the urge into submission, but it lingers just below the surface, and Taehyung’s easy demeanor and persuasive air abruptly make sense. There aren’t many empaths – the technology is exorbitantly expensive – and those who have them are frequently… not quite on the same frequency as everyone else. If at a basic level he could read the emotions of the people around him, registering their temperatures and heart rate and hormones, he might be more at ease, too. Or at least be always trying to put the people around him at ease.

For obvious reasons, empaths aren’t exactly welcome, and Namjoon can feel a new wariness creeping into his perception. He wonders if he should send Jungkook to check on Holly.

Taehyung notices. His head tilts, and a small pout appears on his thin mouth. Before he can say anything, Seokjin makes the plunge, reaches out and grabs the other Meth’s shoulder. The grip is light, but his fingers are rigid. “Tell them everything you can do, Tae,” he suggests quietly.

For the first time since he’s been hauled into the apartment, Taehyung looks doubtful. The puppy-dog expression melts away, replaced by something leaner. Warier. Harder. “Everything?”

With a firm nod, Seokjin agrees to the uncertain question. The Meth doesn’t yield right away, his eyes picking their way from face to face. He stares for a long time at Yoongi, gives Jungkook a more cursory examination, and then Namjoon finds himself under those perceptive eyes. He’s had enough time to get his emotions under control now, to hold them on a tight leash that arranges them into pretty, orderly rows. No spikes to give away his thoughts, and Namjoon can be grateful to his training for letting him be tabula rasa. If not for much else.

Yet, for some reason, Taehyung stares at him for even longer than the other two. Long enough to have Jungkook and Yoongi shifting impatiently, the silence sitting like a sixth member of the discussion between them. Namjoon doesn’t move, just returns the gaze as evenly as he can, doing his best to quell the growing, nervous suspicion that Taehyung is still seeing something through his blank slate. Have the years turned his training from white plastic to translucent glass, possible to see through if one stares hard enough?

And if not, just what is the Meth searching for? 

“You can trust him, Tae.” Seokjin’s high voice slips out unobtrusively, yet the earnestness of the statement is enough to break the silence.

It’s enough to break Namjoon’s composure, too. Warm surprise and gratitude rise up in his chest, impossible to immediately douse, and frankly, he doesn’t even want to quench the pleased emotion. Which frustrates him, makes him put out the warmth that much more fiercely.

Taehyung blinks, leans back in his chair. The capitulation is so sudden Namjoon thinks he might be getting whiplash. “I’m not just an empath. Or, well, maybe I’m more than an empath? I can do things they can’t do, or I do things better than they do, or…”

“Tae.” Relieved, familiar, cajoling, the simple nickname gets Taehyung back on track in a very abrupt way.

“Oh, right. Sorry. Basically, I can affect how you guys are feeling. How anyone is feeling.”

“Bullshit,” Yoongi breathes, and what little colour was in his face has left. Namjoon sympathizes. Seriously. The table between him and Taehyung doesn’t really feel like enough.

Taehyung brings his thumb to his mouth, starts gnawing on the skin around his nail. The rather young motion is nervous and oddly disarming, and it shows in a slight hitch in his bright tone. “I can. You don’t want to believe me, because it’s uncomfortable, but that doesn’t make it less true. It’s how I got Arven to tell me anything at all.” The boy’s voice fades as he turns, looking pleadingly at Seokjin, and the Meth’s hand tightens on his shoulder.

“It’s not something he does purposefully, Namjoon,” Seokjin says, meeting Namjoon’s eyes and holding them, mainly because Namjoon doesn’t want to look away from that softly handsome face. His bruises are well on their way to being gone, just faded yellow splotches, and they don’t really take away from the benevolent cast of the Meth’s appearance. It’s even more prominent now, and Namjoon can almost feel the heartfelt pleading behind his dark eyes. He really wants them to believe Taehyung.

Funny. With the crooked nose and arrogant mouth, when he’d first seen him, he’d thought Seokjin looked cruel. The Meth is many things, self-centred not being the least of them, but he’s extremely far from being a cruel person. 

“It’s not like he sees that you’re angry or scared or sad and changes it. Nothing like that. It’s more… he’s likeable. Really, really likeable. People who stay around him for any length of time end up liking him.”

“Most people,” Taehyung says softly, and he suddenly reminds Namjoon of Holly, when Namjoon had once accidentally stumbled and ended up kicking her. All stricken hurt and wounded betrayal.

“Most people,” Seokjin amends, jaw tightening, and there’s something there. Maybe not a secret. Maybe just an understanding that’s only fit for two. Taking a deep breath, Seokjin continues. “The point is, he can’t control what you think. Not even how you feel, not really. He’s not a threat to you guys, I swear.”

“Bullshit,” Yoongi says again, but so shakily this time that the two syllables shudder. “That’s – impossible. I’ve never heard anything like that.”

Neither has Namjoon, and he has significantly more experience in experimental human projects than anyone in this room. He knows that empath modifications are expensive enough that only a wealthy Meth could afford them. He also knows that describing a Meth as wealthy is like describing a fire as hot; redundant, unless you’re comparing a flame to the sun. A matter of very significant degrees.

At what degree could someone afford emotional alteration? What would that even entail? Some kind of hormone or pheromone releaser? Precise voice adaption and control? And all of that tied into the pre-existing empath system, to read people’s reactions and adjust accordingly? And all of it automatic, if Seokjin is to be believed?

In a world of immense scientific advancement, it sounds like science fiction.

And yet… Why lie about something that can only make Namjoon and his group more wary? Less likely to trust? It doesn’t make any sense, not if Seokjin truly wants to protect his friend.

His fingers have gone to his lips, and Namjoon pulls them down when he realizes it. “Are you sure you’re not… mistaken?” he asks slowly. The flash of indignation across the Meth’s face is almost amusing. Almost. “I just don’t see someone being able to fund that kind of implementation in a person, let alone the research that would have been required beforehand.”

“Oh, you know so much about research in biological engineering?” Seokjin demands irately.

“Yeah, I do.” He lets himself faintly enjoy the other man’s taken aback expression before continuing. “Enough to know that it’s not inexpensive, and that everyone in the relevant fields feel that they’ve gone as far as they can where empathy is concerned.”

While Seokjin seems at a loss to reply, it’s hard to tell if Taehyung is upset by the challenge. “My father doesn’t really care what people feel,” he mumbles, still examining his nail. Looking for more skin to strip away. “When he wants something, he gets it. Cost isn’t an issue.”

Though Jungkook has been hanging back in the kitchen doorway, keeping an eye on the living room, he speaks up now. “Creds can’t buy everything. They can’t. Not even Meth creds.” Is his lip bleeding? He must have bitten it too hard, and Namjoon feels a familiar frustrated, painful lurch in his chest. Why is it so easy to know what the younger man really means when he makes that flat denouncement, but so hard to know how to make him heal from the wounds that are speaking?

 _No,_ he wants to agree, fiercely, fervently, like a prayer. _They can’t buy everything. Not us. Not our lives._ But he doesn’t, not in front of this – these strangers. Yoongi too is observing Jungkook, but after a moment he looks down, frowning.

“You’re wrong. I’m sorry, but you’re wrong. My father hasn’t ever wanted something that he couldn’t get, even if it took him a century to get it. He wanted to live in a neighbourhood that was an ocean complex, and there, Glass Harbour is. He wanted it next to a city on the leading edge of tech and wealth. Here we are. He wanted a son who could manipulate people’s emotions.” When Taehyung smiles, this time it’s just a bit tired. “Here I am.”

Today is a day for insights, though there are many different kinds. This one comes slowly, creeping along and gnawing at the edges of Namjoon’s awareness, making its presence known by a nibbling unpleasantness. It’s like that whisper that comes when you stand at the edge of a tall building and know you won’t jump – but knowing that you could. A restrained sense of destruction nestled patiently in your muscles.

He asks the question that has to be asked. “Who is your father?”

Taehyung tilts his head, by now a familiar motion. “Hyung didn’t tell you? He’s Junseo. Kim Junseo.”

The choking sound comes from one of the others, but Namjoon is too busy trying to keep himself from doing the exact same thing to identify who it was. His jaw is actually aching from the effort of keeping his mouth from falling open, shock and something harsher, something rabidly guilty, picking at his insides. He finds himself studying Taehyung more closely, like he’s trying to find a link. Not to the cold handsomeness of Junseo, but to Junseo’s wife. The relation is obvious, once he knows to take a closer look. It doesn’t matter, it really doesn’t, but Taehyung has his mother’s nose. Her eyes. 

_You’re getting distracted,_ Namjoon snaps at himself, and reels in the guilt and panic and incredulity, folds it all up in a neat ball under his sternum. Focuses on what’s _important_.

Nothing new, he’s kicking himself for not figuring it out sooner. Of course this is one of Junseo’s children; who else in Triptych could spend so much money? And the way Seokjin had looked when Namjoon was talking about Junseo, an expression of personal displeasure… Namjoon had assumed it was merely Meth distaste for someone more powerful, but that didn’t really fit Seokjin. He _knew_ Junseo, and how better to know the bastard’s tendencies than through his children?

But why hadn’t the Meth mentioned it before? Though he tries to contain it, when his eyes flick to Seokjin, they’re more than slightly accusing.

Noticing, the honey brown haired Meth straightens, about to say something. Yoongi forestalls him. “This is _great_ ,” the hacker exclaims, and he’s not being sarcastic. Face flushed, eyes latched onto Taehyung like he’s a treasure that could disappear at any second – the boy flinches – Yoongi starts shifting, his hands balled up into excited fists. “This is exactly what we need to get him to fuck off.”

Namjoon catches on a second later and supposes it shouldn’t surprise him that Yoongi saw it first. The man’s clever about these things. And Namjoon is on the same page as him. Definitely. So why is disquiet padding softly down his spine? Seokjin’s thick brows are furrowed uneasily, Jungkook simply blank with confusion, but Taehyung suddenly sinks down further into his chair.

Picking up on his friend’s fear, Seokjin roughly demands, “What do you mean?”

“Using him as a hostage,” Namjoon replies, as gently as he can. He made a decision last night – if he can help it, he’s not going to lie to Seokjin, at least not directly – and the bare truth has always seemed to work better with the emotional man than an attempt at evasion.

It doesn’t exactly work better now. Seokjin’s face darkens, his head ticking to the side in an angry shake. In moments of sheer fury – and given the circumstances, they’ve been surprisingly few – the Meth actually looks… like someone to be concerned about. Is that Siwoo’s body language, bleeding through in moments of duress? The man is intimidating enough to look at, but there’s something else there, something that some two-bit gangster from the Curve probably couldn’t have summoned. An imperious kind of certainty that rests on a bedrock of immortality and privilege. A belief that if he confronts a mountain, it is the mountain that will move.

Voice dropping low, Seokjin snaps, “Like hell you will.”

When Jungkook stiffens and moves to Yoongi’s side, responding to the change in the Meth’s posture just as much as his challenge, Namjoon doesn’t gesture him back. From the start, he’s had an aversion, almost physical, to causing Seokjin more pain than absolutely necessary. It was his fault, his idea, to take the man from the police station; any and all harm that followed would be his fault, too, and Namjoon’s been playing the best game of damage control he’s ever managed.

But this is a different scale, a different weight. What Yoongi saw so clearly is shining right in front of Namjoon’s eyes, too. With Taehyung as a bargaining chip – a very, very expensive bargaining chip – they can demand Junseo leave them alone. Get some kind of insurance. Namjoon very much doubts that the man cares about one of his children to the extent of changing plans, but he cares about creds. He’s proved that time and time again – and Namjoon has helped him prove it. There’s some kind of poetic justice in that, in one of Junseo’s kids falling so neatly into the hands of the man he fucked over.

Namjoon doesn’t want to think about what he’s already destroyed because of Junseo. There’s no point in dragging through history and he refuses to let it chain him in place. If they need to prove just how willing they are to wreck the thing Junseo’s poured so many creds into…

Well, Namjoon already has nightmares. What’s one or two more, added to a thousand?

“It’s sure as fuck not up to you,” Yoongi spits, a feverish glare in his eyes.

“You can’t.” It’s not a request, and, grudgingly so, this is something that has always impressed Namjoon about Meths. Impressed him and repulsed him. The unshaken belief that their words are laws of physics, laws of reality, capable of altering what is to what they want it to be. He has met Meths who do not have a handle on this mythic certainty, but Seokjin is not one of them.

Breaking that transcendent inevitability, spoken by an anxiously tense man who has proven himself brave and resolute far beyond expectations, feels like a crime. It’s probably a good thing that Namjoon has been a criminal – in one form or another – for the vast majority of his life.

The cool expression he hauls onto his face is as familiar and uncomfortable as a scratchy blanket or the first jet of cold water from a showerhead. “We have to. I told you, Seokjin, we’ll do what we have to do, and this is the best way for us to keep safe.” _And the only way._ If they’d had a plan before this, some concrete way to save his friends without hurting the boy who’s sunk so low in the chair his chest is at the table…

But no. Those are just excuses. This is the best way, the safest way, and Namjoon would have taken it regardless of their other options. Even if it meant breaking the trust Seokjin had just given him. After all, he’d suggested Siwoo’s torture, been the first to try it, even when Jin seemed a possible, different lead. Anything and everything. That was the motto, and Namjoon hasn’t changed it much. Anything and everything to protect his family.

Seokjin’s eyes are blinking hard, a facial tic he’d mentioned last night that he’d inherited from Siwoo. He’s shifting on the balls of his feet, caught between standing between Jungkook, Yoongi and Taehyung, or Namjoon and Taehyung. The odds are obvious in the hope falling from his face, but the large man might be able to give them some issues before they subdue him. And he seems determined to, wide shoulders stiffening as he takes in a deep breath.

Heart wilting into his stomach, Namjoon shakes his head, a gentle warning that goes ignored. Fine. They’ll have to restrain both of them. Better to put them in different rooms. He’ll sleep on the couch; they can put Taehyung in his room until everything is over…

The clinical planning, all future and no present, is almost enough to extinguish Namjoon’s guilt. 

Taehyung breaks the brittle silence into jagged pieces that cut all of them. “It’s okay, Jinnie. I knew this might happen when I came. I’m just glad you’re okay. Don’t… don’t hate them too much, okay? They don’t want to do it. Not really.” For all that his words strive for steadiness, they waver a little at the end, and the Meth is sweating, squirming in his chair. It’s a wonder they can’t hear his heart fluttering against his chest. Namjoon unexpectedly feels his guilt expand to include the other man. Taehyung just looks so young, so – like his mother had, before she died.

The guilt is a truly heavy burden now, one Namjoon’s conscience struggles to carry in the face of their wretched expressions.

“No. No, I’m not –” Seokjin chokes on that, chokes on the way the situation is so quickly unraveling from his control. He heaves in an even deeper breath. When he starts again, his voice is urgent. Frantic. “You guys don’t get it. This won’t – won’t work. I know you said you know Junseo, but you don’t know how he is with Taehyung. You don’t – He’ll let you hurt him. Let you hurt him a lot.”

“And you think we care?”

Yoongi’s sneer is missing something, some vital force, like wind blowing through a sailcloth filled with holes. Nonetheless, a second later Holly’s reproachful voice drifts in from the living room. “Yoongi…”

Taehyung is so scared he doesn’t seem to notice the soft rebuke, but Yoongi abruptly slumps, folds in on himself, shoves his hands into his pockets. Jungkook doesn’t move closer, but he’s chewing at his lip again.

“You care,” Seokjin says, the conviction in his words strong enough to carry their denial, and throw it away, too. He’s staring at Namjoon as he says it, but his high tone envelopes everyone with uncomfortable, gossamer expectation. “I swear, even if Junseo eventually agrees to take him back, he won’t stay true to whatever deal you make. He’ll tear you apart the first chance he gets.” He pauses, swallows. “And if he gets his hands on Taehyung after all of that, he’ll kill him.”

“Kill him? Why?” Jungkook’s face is all youth and disbelief, waiting expectantly for a horror story he isn’t entirely certain he wants to hear.

This is not a new or strange story to Namjoon’s ears. Very little of the horrible is, least of all parents killing their children, and he hardened his heart against it long ago. Especially where Junseo is concerned. But the math seems off. “He wouldn’t waste all of the creds it took to create the sleeve.”

It isn’t until Seokjin’s frown deepens into something akin to pain, and he moves protectively closer to Taehyung, that the callousness of Namjoon’s statement becomes obvious. Sometimes it’s hard to remember that he has to – It’s hard. He closes his eyes, pushes his fingers against them as if the pressure could force better words into the forefront of his mind.

Taehyung’s whisper pries his eyes back open. “He wouldn’t destroy the sleeve. He’d rip out my stack and crush it and give this,” he scratches aimlessly at his chest, “to someone else.”

“But _why_?” Jungkook demands.

The Meth’s smile is sickly. “Because when he had me made, he forgot one thing. ‘Build me a boy who forces people to adore him,’ he said.” Taehyung adopts a sing-song voice when he quotes his father, bitterly reminiscent of a fairy-tale. “‘Build me a boy who can make me contacts that won’t betray me. Build me a boy who gives me control.’ And they did. But he forgot one thing. He forgot to say, ‘Build me a boy who can do all these things, but don’t let him do it to me.’” 

Jungkook is still confused, but Namjoon understands. He knows Junseo, and the man is, quite literally, a psychopath about control. A psychopath about a lot of things, but especially about control. And if he found his own emotions being read, evaluated and pulled at, even by his flesh-and-blood…

“He’s horrible,” Seokjin states, and the flatness of the declaration is heavier than any ringing accusation. “The only reason he hasn’t done something – something worse – to Taehyung is that he doesn’t want that kind of attention. Not after all the controversy about his wife.” The stiffness in Namjoon’s jaw spreads down his throat, burrows through his chest, wraps around his lungs until it’s hard to breathe. Thankfully, everyone is too engrossed in the conversation to notice his suddenly rigid stance.

Yoongi shifts, fingers playing along his neck, and Seokjin tenses as though he expects the other man to make yet another objection or cruel comment. There’s none forthcoming. The mint-haired man keeps darting sharp glances at Taehyung, like throwing knives at a target that’s too easy to miss. He can’t seem to keep his eyes on the Meth for any length of time.

The shamed ache in Namjoon’s chest is growing, all barbs and rending reproach. Is that Taehyung, drawing out his sympathy over more practical, reasonable emotions? Or is it just his humanity, reminding him of what is and what should never be? About the fact that he’s probably already hurt Taehyung deeply, even if the Meth doesn’t know, and here he is, planning to do it again, only worse. Once again, he catches himself rubbing at his face, and when he forces himself to drop his hands, they feel like weights threatening to take him through the floor.

“Is it true?” Jungkook isn’t staring – or pointedly not staring – at their unexpected guest. His searching gaze is seeking Namjoon, seeking truth, and it’s just another expectation to shoulder, another burden to juggle. Does he give those lost eyes what they’re searching for, or does he offer a lie, padded and designed to soften the blow of reality? If he tells the truth – what his twisting gut tells him is the truth – he knows what Kookie’s reaction will be. It could make everything harder if the young man decides Taehyung is a victim and nothing else.

 _I don’t know._ The answer stings his tongue, hovers at the edge of his lips. A compromise – a copout. He doesn’t resign himself to those, not usually, but in this case the temptation is almost overwhelming. At least then Jungkook doesn’t have to know with certainty the things this kid – this Meth who’s had a better life than any of them – has been through.

In the breath of time it takes him to decide, Seokjin answers the question. “It is. Lying wouldn’t do Tae or I any good at this point. If –” He hesitates before bulling ahead. “I’m not just protecting Tae, here. If you guys do this, if you set up a deal with Junseo, he’ll betray you, just for having given him trouble. And when he does, I’m done, too. I don’t know why he let them leave me alive last time, but I don’t think he’d do it again. So I’m telling you, seriously, with my own skin on the line, just as much as yours: don’t do this.”

Taehyung’s head, which had fallen, lifts at Seokjin’s words. His stricken brows are a mystery until Namjoon realizes he probably wouldn’t have known about his father’s murderous scheming against his best friend. For the first time, anger – fury, even – twists the Meth’s thin mouth, even as his jaw works, like he’s grinding up the curses he’d be saying otherwise. It’s a startlingly vehement change.

More sincerity, on top of Jin’s plea. Earnest but calculated, the appeal could have been gift-wrapped for Namjoon, the way it plays with both sides of the head and the heart. He shifts, starkly aware of the way both Yoongi and Jungkook are watching him now. More than ever, he wishes Jimin were back from his meeting. He’d like to hear an opinion untouched by the anger that plagues his other companions. Besides, Jimin is good at seeing into schemes, pulling them apart at the seams and laying them open.

His reply straggles out, reluctant to become solid. “There’s a way to check if you’re right. We send Junseo a message, let him know we have Taehyung. We see what he says. If the reply is… inappropriate… we might change plans.” _Might. Maybe._

Pale, Seokjin shakes his head. The tension is obvious in his veined neck, his flaring nostrils, but he doesn’t immediately find another path to argue. Honestly, Namjoon should cut him off. Should just wrap this up, confine them to the rooms, at least until Jimin comes home and they can discuss it. But yesterday, and on the day he woke up, Seokjin offered all of them hope. Naïve, occasionally stupid hope, but hope, nonetheless. And all for a grand total cost of nothing. Can Namjoon really crush his attempts this time, at least without giving him a fair go at it?

No. No, he can’t.

They lapse into fidgeting silence. Restlessness prickles them like electricity, forbidding stillness, but the soft shuffling noises that come from tapped feet and brushed clothes aren’t enough to usher out the torrential pressure flattening all sound. Namjoon rubs his face and wonders how he could have fled from this exact sort of dilemma, only to end up in it all over again.

He expects Jungkook to break the quiet, the young man too impatient and proud to let it rob his speech for long. However, he fails to take into account a Meth’s impatience, a breed all it’s own, and it’s Taehyung that exhales. “Dad tried to kill you?”

“…Probably. Almost definitely. Or, well, have me killed, I guess. My sleeve.” Seokjin obviously doesn’t want to be saying this, and Taehyung’s expression doesn’t change from the almost-snarl of before.

“Why?”

“We don’t know, Tae. Maybe for something I put on one of my disks. For something I knew, but I don’t remember now. Getting shot did something to me, either to my stack or my head, and I don’t remember much from just before. We don’t know much more than that. Do you… did I tell you anything?”

Thumbing at the material of his turtleneck as though it’s personally offended him, Taehyung says softly, “You’ve been… jumpy, a bit, these last few months. You met with a lot of other people. You wouldn’t tell me why, and asked me not to look into it – in any way. So I didn’t, mostly. But when I did accidentally… I dunno. You were nervous, hyung. Unsure a lot of the time.”

A pause, and his rubbing becomes harder, like he’s trying to scrub something away. “The night you… disappeared. When you left the Ring, you said you’d be right back. But you looked anxious, even without my…” His fingers ghost over his eyes, indicating plainly what he means. “So I read you. And you were excited, suspicious, tense. Like you were looking forward to getting something but weren’t sure you’d actually get it. I thought about stopping you, or at least going with you but, I dunno… It didn’t seem important at the time.”

“If you had, you might have been hurt. I’m glad you didn’t,” Seokjin says, and Namjoon marvels at how firm he sounds. How utterly certain.

Taehyung’s head twitches, a miniscule disagreement, and then he abruptly drops his chin. “I should have insisted on going with you. I’m sorry I don’t know more. The next thing I knew, the cops were in the Ring, asking if anyone heard anything, or had been with a man named Seokjin, and I…”

“It doesn’t matter now, TaeTae. I’m here, right? And it’s fine. I’m fine.” The lie is delivered so smoothly, so reassuringly, and that must be the Meth upbringing, right? To have the audacity to lie right to the face of an empath, and an extraordinarily powerful one at that, and expect to get away with it?

(Namjoon’s lies don’t count. He’s said his so often he’s practically written them on his bones, whereas Seokjin was near tears last night, a far cry from fine.)

Besides, Taehyung doesn’t even buy it. At Seokjin’s insistence, the Meth’s eyes had risen to look more closely at his friend, who moves his shoulders uncomfortably, clearly having banked on the empath not using his tech. After a momentary pause, Taehyung seems to accept not pursing the topic, but instead observes quietly, “You know something else.” Seokjin’s sharp intake of breath, hissing through clenched teeth, suggests he was hoping the other man wouldn’t notice that, either. “You’re too upset – too deep, too angry – for it to be just my dad.”

“My parents,” Seokjin mumbles, unwilling but seemingly aware that he can’t brush off the remark. “They’re part of it.”

“Ah… That’s why they put the DNR on you, right?” Taehyung shrugs at his friend’s surprise. “I went to the police station, and when they told me about it, I tried to persuade their captain to get rid of it.” He pauses, wets his lip. “It didn’t work like I thought it would. He wouldn’t listen.”

Now it’s Namjoon’s turn to feel a sudden stab of rage, intense and white hot through his throat. Hoseok’s too-alert face comes to mind in a wave of distorted fury. The captain resisting Taehyung’s abilities just confirms Namjoon’s incensed suspicions. Too personal, too personal, but fucking _hell_. Why was a CTAC tank serving as a captain in some back alley precinct? No, not why. How? How? That fucker had said it was a one-time thing, an impossibility otherwise. He’d said that the cost Namjoon had paid to get out was to cover a miracle, and miracles didn’t come twice.

It’s almost enough to make him say fuck you to Junseo and agree with Jin. Which just goes to show that his companions aren’t the only ones dealing with anger issues. All the more reason to wait for Jimin.

The two Meths have continued their subdued conversation while he’s been struggling with the flash of heat. “… some girl at the Ring said someone’s having a party. Is it Junseo?”

“Yeah. He wouldn’t tell me why he was having it.” Taehyung touches the side of his face, winces. “I didn’t ask twice.” A bruise, hidden by expensive and effective make-up? Namjoon can’t tell, but cosmetics nowadays can hide almost anything. If you can afford them. Still rubbing morosely at the spot, the shaggy-haired man mutters, “He told me I had to attend, though.”

Jin nudges him, just a gentle push. “Look at it this way. The way things are going, you’re going to miss it.”

Taehyung’s brilliant, boxy smile makes it even harder to tell how much he’s suffering. How much is genuine. “I guess that’s true,” he giggles.

Seokjin relaxes – until suddenly he doesn’t. Until suddenly there’s lightning in his dark eyes and the pressure in the kitchen coalesces into a single, thunderous resonation that expands from Seokjin’s exultant expression and sweeps over them all. He steps toward Namjoon, so quickly that, despite himself, Namjoon stiffens, almost takes a step back. Either failing to notice or disregarding it entirely, Seokjin bounds up to Namjoon, grabs him with two hands by the wrist. Starts shaking his arm like he needs to exorcise the excitement dancing across his face.

“That’s it!” he exclaims, and repeats it several times, each time louder and higher than the last.

Namjoon tries to extricate himself from the tight grip without being violent. He fails. Jungkook looms nearby, hesitant in the face of the seemingly benign eagerness. Caught equally flatfooted, eventually Namjoon gives up on prying the surprisingly strong fingers from around his arm. “What is?” he asks, and if there’s a snap of impatient perplexity in his voice, sue him.

“You said it!” Seokjin shrieks, kinda in Namjoon’s face, but the way his skin is flushed with colour, all the way to the red on the tips of his ears, makes him look healthier than he has in the last few days. Alive, like whatever he’s babbling about has driven out the ghost that’s been leaching his vitality away. For that, Namjoon can forgive being yelled at.

Still shaking his arm – deliberately kept loose, it moves limply, as though it’s boneless – Seokjin sputters a few more nonsensical half-sentences before managing to put a rein on his frantic energy. “The reason you can’t contact Junseo, Namjoon. The reason you can’t use Tae as a hostage! You said it yourself, you need a way to get into the party. Well – there! He’s right there!” He lets go with one hand, brandishes it at Taehyung.

Who doesn’t look like he’s caught on to his friend’s insight. Actually, Taehyung is staring at Seokjin as though he’s on fire, which, given his empathetic abilities, might not be far off the mark. After a moment, he jerks his shoulders, a gesture of helpless confusion.

Maybe it’s the man clinging to his arm to the point of numbness (it’s definitely that), but Namjoon feels the same.

Seeing their lack of comprehension, Seokjin actually throws his hands into the air (which is something of a relief for Namjoon). “Taehyung!” he exclaims in exasperation. “Taehyung comes and goes as he pleases! Taehyung is your key to Glass Harbour!”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who commented on the last chapter! It means a lot to me <3

When he was young – some five or six years old – and still lived on Tridentia, Namjoon had had a bad experience in one of the excessively numerous bodies of water on that planet. To say that he’d nearly drowned would be an over exaggeration, with his parents nearby and quick to react to his disappearance. Still, for a little ankle biter, being caught in a riptide and dragged under had been, to put it mildly, a memorable event. True to form, he’s never been able to forget the choking sensation of absolute disorientation and panic.

To this day, Namjoon doesn’t like the water very much. Drowning to death last months had just been the cherry on top of an already prominent fear. Rationally, he knows he died because he’d been shot in the chest and lung, because he’d had several broken bones and possibly a fractured skull, because he’d literally decided to drown instead of being taken by Junseo’s men. Rationally, the water actually had very little to do with it.

That only does so much to calm the wracking cough that threatens to spill from his throat as they roll down the long street that leads to the Docks. Their driver has her window open, and he can hear the steady, insistent crash of the waves through it. If he breathes too deeply, especially if he catches the briny stench, it almost feels like those waves are sloshing through his lungs, flooding the empty space and forcing out all of his oxygen. Ridiculous and sentimental, but Namjoon still has to fall back on his training exercises from so long ago to remain still.

Not to mention take shallow breaths.

When they come to a stop, Taehyung leans forward and presses two of his fingers against a panel located on the back of the driver’s seat. The screen flickers to life, a low hum is heard, and then their driver turns to smile at them, saying, “How much would you like to tip, Mr. Kim?”

“Taehyung, Sasha. It’s Taehyung.” There’s no bite in the Meth’s bright voice, just playful recrimination. “How far out of the way did you have to go to pick us up on such short notice?”

She shrugs, taking his reminder and the question nonchalantly. “It wasn’t that far.”

“Then make it sixty percent.” Her dark eyebrow lifts at that, but she doesn’t protest, and a short moment later a whirr comes from the screen Taehyung has his fingertips against. “Say hello to Jerome and Mikey for me, will you?”

“Sure, Mr. Taehyung. They’ll be sad they missed you.”

Namjoon watches the interaction with a frown, little prickles of unease curling across his skin. There’s nothing sinister about it, but given that he has no gun and no chance if this is some kind of coded exchange, he can’t help but pay too much attention to the harmless conversation. That’s the problem with it – it’s too harmless. What Meth talks to their driver like that?

And if this is a normal conversation, at least for Taehyung, it makes him – if not good, then certainly not as horrible as Namjoon somewhat wishes he would be. At least if the Meth were a prick, it would do something to the guilt churning across his stomach, suppressed only because he’s always guilty and because, with this companion in particular, he can’t afford to show it.

Taehyung unfolds his long body from out of the taxi, and Namjoon is quick to follow, keeping close to the other man’s side. In front of them the Docks unfurls, all antiquated charm with its rustic outbuildings and fake wooden planks underfoot. He’s more than a little surprised that they’ve stopped here instead of gone straight through. This is the smallest of the three official entrances to the Glass Harbour community, and there’s only a relatively short line at the walk-in access, but it doesn’t seem like something Taehyung would have the patience to deal with. No one waiting in line to be let in is a Meth; Namjoon can tell that instinctively, from the way they hold themselves, to their dress, to the looks they get when Taehyung joins the queue, his platinum interface flashing on his wrist in the bright sun.

So why is the Meth getting in line? Can’t Junseo’s son just stroll in after waving that screaming sign?

Beyond them, passed the barricade, a bridge designed to look like a jetty lunges out from the coast, spanning the frothing waves with industrial indifference. It’s wide enough for four lanes of traffic, though a single car or transport truck only occasionally speeds across. The gate that blocks access to the road admits them without fuss. On either side of the bridge, there’re slender spaces for people to walk. Overhead, there’s more traffic, Meths in their hovercars zooming to and from their manmade paradise with no care for any kind of security checkpoint. Further down the shore, Namjoon can make out the largest of the bridges, a monster of fabricated wood, concrete and steel, though the third one isn’t in sight. 

“Do you know all of your drivers’ names?” he asks as he comes up, and the Meth throws him a puzzled smile.

“Uh – no? I only have one regular driver, and I know his name, but I can’t say I know everyone who picks me up.”

“But you knew her.”

“Sasha? Yeah. I request her whenever Drayton isn’t available.”

Knitting his brow, Namjoon keeps pace with the line as they move closer to the border. Part of him knows he’s trying to distract himself from the forbidding mutter of the ocean, altogether too close, but he’s genuinely curious, too. “Why her?”

“I like her,” Taehyung replies simply. When Namjoon’s interrogative look asks for more, the Meth shrugs, turns slightly away. “A few years ago, I had her as a driver. She had her kids with her at the time, and they were young. Most of the Meths don’t like that at all, and I could tell how nervous she was that I would get mad at her, maybe even send her away. She needed the money. Well, I love kids, so it was no problem. Not then and not now. I figure it helps.”

His lean face lights up as he says it, and Namjoon can feel a familiar anger churning inside him, softened into exasperation for the likable Taehyung’s sake. Now isn’t the time to start anything, though, so he bites his tongue and merely says, “It’s more than most Meths do.”

He’d forgotten Taehyung’s abilities, though. The Meth studies him for a moment before saying quietly, “You think I should do more.”

Conscious of the other people nearby, Namjoon keeps his voice low, too. “You could do more.” He thinks he says it too harshly, too forceful for all that it’s quiet, because Taehyung flinches. Or – no. The kid can see his anger, can’t he? Feel his frustration? He’s been gone from the Corps for too long if he’s showing it that openly… even if he’s just showing it on the inside of his chest.

“I try,” the boy breathes shakily. “I’m – Mike and Jerome have their college tuitions paid for. Sasha doesn’t need to take people now, if they make her uncomfortable.” Those sound like excuses to Namjoon. Pretty excuses, the kind that are light enough to float you over guilt, but excuses all the same. It must show, or maybe Taehyung really is that powerful of an empath, because he reddens. For the first time since Namjoon met him earlier today, he actually looks like a Meth: petulant, on the edge of a temper tantrum. “You don’t know as much as you think you do,” he sulks, a little louder, and if he’d been just a bit taller, he might have been able to look down at Namjoon, too.

This _really_ isn’t the time. And beyond that, who is he to judge this man? After everything Namjoon has done? After everything Namjoon has done – to Taehyung’s family?

After a brief struggle, Namjoon wrestles the emotions back into place. “You might be right,” he says. “For example: why didn’t Sasha bring us into Glass Harbour? Straight to your house? I’m sure you have some sort of identifier in that sleeve, or in your stack.”

Taehyung’s expression is taken aback enough at the turnaround to be a little amusing. He blinks, blinks again, before his eyes narrow and he turns away. “You’ll just judge me again,” he mutters resentfully.

“One way to know.” They shuffle up several steps as a large group of people – charity workers looking for donations, if the logos on their shirts are any indication – finally gain entrance, and now there’s only a few clusters between them and the entrance.

The way the other man shifts his weight suggests he’s mulling it over, but Namjoon’s already pretty sure what he’ll decide. There’s an openness to Taehyung, a willingness to share (perhaps excessively so) that resonates from every single quick emotion that passes over his face. And as it turns out, Namjoon’s intuition doesn’t fail him with this one.

“She told me one of the security guards sometimes hassles her when she leaves,” Taehyung blurts out. “I tried to get him fired – I _did_ get him fired – but Junseo heard about it. He hates when I do things like that, so he had the guy hired again. It’s like that all the time. I try to do something good and he just… erases it.” Drawing the heel of his hand across his eyes in a surprisingly violent motion, he’s caught somewhere between a sniffle and a cough, and Namjoon examines the people in front of them with studied politeness.

“So, you let her drop you off here to avoid the guard?” An equally violent nod.

He wishes he felt surprised about what Tae is saying. Really, he wishes he feels something more than faint disgust. There’s sympathy for the other man – that capacity hasn’t been poisoned to death yet – but Namjoon can’t summon much of anything outside of that. Except for, maybe, hate. He could hate a man like Junseo.

The years have taught him too many lessons about hate to embrace it with anything approaching joy, though, so Namjoon doesn’t.

“How do you do that?” Taehyung asks abruptly, a waver still in his voice.

Caught off guard, Namjoon says warily, “Do what?”

“Shut off. I’ve never seen anyone who can wipe away their emotions like you do. Even that police captain could only cover his. Like syrup over stale pancakes. But yours actually disappear.”

“You can see that?” He’s surprised – and disturbed – enough to ignore the mention of Jung Hoseok.

Taehyung hesitates. After a moment, he gestures ahead of them, passed the barricade to the shadowed blue ocean swelling along the coast, breaking itself against the rocks and retreating, only to surge forward again. Namjoon gives it a half-second look before tearing his eyes away. “It’s like that. You, Jin, my father, everyone. Different colours, different ways of pitching and crashing, different heights, but it’s always like that. Except with you, it’s like… There’s this wave gathering, and then suddenly it’s just… gone. How do you do it?”

They’re both saved from the answer by the people ahead of them finishing their exchange and being let through, clutching at the visitor passes they’ve been given. As soon as the man in the attendance booth sees them, his eyes widen, spine snapping straight from its disinterested slouch, and, speechless, he flaps at the air with his hands. “Mr. Kim!” he exclaims once he’s found his voice from wherever it flew off to.

“Taehyung,” the Mr. Kim in question says, but so quietly that Namjoon barely hears it, and the attendant either doesn’t, or chooses to ignore it.

“We had no idea you were coming through at this hour! Please, accept our apologies Mr. Kim. If we had known… You could have come to the front of the line, but of course, we’ll let you through, and your companion, of course…” There’s no one else in the booth; Namjoon peeks inside to be sure. Nothing like the knee-jerk reaction of trying to diffuse blame in the face of a possibly tyrannical client.

The entrance into the bridge’s walkway is an imposing marble arch that gives no indication of the security features that are probably stuffed inside. With the press of a button from inside the booth, the gate set just before it swings wide, and the attendant gestures in a way that’s supposed to be inviting but just comes off as ingratiating. He can’t imagine manning this gate, day after day, living in fear of a moment when you have to deal with someone who could have you fired with the wave of their hand. Working for Meths? He’d rather drown.

 _Liar_ , his mind whispers, and Namjoon is just as good at shutting that down as he is at reining in his emotions.

He and Taehyung go through, and there’s probably a scanner skimming over them, checking for weapons, which is why he’s currently unarmed. Or maybe it’s not checking. Do they turn that test on for Meths and friends? Will a sensor be scanning his ID, checking it against the Protectorate’s criminal databank? Or is that another pass? Either way, this sleeve and this identity have no crimes to their name – at least none that could be proven in court – and he hasn’t been wearing it for long enough to worry that someone, somewhere, might know just who he is.

No lights, no alarms. They emerge from the checkpoint, and ahead of them stretches the bridge. The people who went in before them are already far in the distance, curtesy of the autowalk, and both of them step onto the moving conveyor. Neither of them sits in the seats arrayed in bunches across the walk. Namjoon very specifically does not look over the side of the guardrail, down at the water rushing some seven meters under their feet, but it’s not all that pleasant to look at their destination, either. Though this bridge can be shielded during colder months, it’s open to the elements now, and the quick way they’re approaching makes everything a little blurred, a little dizzy. The wind of their passage is plucking playfully at his hair, a stiff and cool breeze against his face, and he gives in to temptation and closes his eyes to enjoy the sensation without having to see anything else.

“After I get you the passes, then what?” Taehyung breaks the silence with the heavy question.

His fingers find his pink locks, idly run through them. The last few hours have been a hurricane of stress, of planning, of decisions. They needed the passes to get into the party, and Jin had been entirely right; Taehyung is the best way to get them. Jimin could probably snag one or two, but not enough to get all or most of them in, and they’d need to have a lot of eyes if they wanted to figure out where the disk was. That meant coming into the lair of the Meths, and Namjoon had been the obvious choice for that, from his past experiences and from the fact that he wouldn’t let anyone else risk it.

He’d forbidden any of them (including a very pissed off Jungkook) from coming with him – if the Meth did turn traitor, Junseo wouldn’t be getting his hands on Namjoon’s family – but it makes him feel surprisingly lonely and a little bit lost. He’s been that before, plenty of times, but being lonely when you’re alone is different from being lonely when you’re cut off from your friends. The latter has more fear, more pain, but it also has hope for a happy reunion, so he supposes it balances out.

It doesn’t really help him know what to do, though. “I haven’t had time to think about it,” he replies, more or less honestly.

Taehyung considers that. His youthful face isn’t really meant for such a serious expression; it’s jarring to see such grave consideration on a sleeve that was probably specifically designed to look innocent and carefree. “Will you get rid of me?”

It’s said so quietly, so dispassionately, that Namjoon first misses the implication of the question. He’s about to reply in the neutral – who knows if they’ll keep the Meth hanging around or let him go? – except then he realizes what Taehyung actually means, and he sucks in a hard breath. The sudden paranoid spike feels like a punch to his gut. “No. No, why would we do that?”

Wrapping his pristine white coat around himself as if the cool breeze is suddenly too cold, the Meth shrugs. “Not ‘them’. You. You’d do anything to protect them. I’m – not one of you, and I can see the way you look at me. I’m dangerous to you.” His light brown eyes remind Namjoon of an AI’s when they flick his way. Too knowing. “You deal with dangerous things by yourself, don’t you, Namjoon?”

He doesn’t know if that’s a stab in the dark or something the empath has picked up, but unease and shame tingle across his skin, far colder than the wind. There’s no way Taehyung could know about his past. It’s not like Junseo would have told him. There’s no way…

“Not anymore,” Namjoon replies, too blankly, like he’s forgotten how to paint the canvas of his own voice. With an effort, he injects more force into the next words. “I do want to protect them, but we work together. And as for you being dangerous – Seokjin trusts you.” That much isn’t in question, not after seeing the two interact for the last few hours.

With faintly curled lips, Taehyung says, “Yeah, he does. We’ve known each other for years, it’s not that weird.” Another careful look. “Do you know what I do find weird, though? That hyung trusts _you_.” Is that a slightly mocking note, or a jealous one? Either way, Namjoon doesn’t respond, though he can’t deny the faint leap of relief that Taehyung doesn’t seem to know – anything.

He also can’t deny – though it surprises him – the pleasure in his chest at the statement, made by someone who’s familiar enough with Seokjin to actually know. The Meth doesn’t exactly hold his emotions close to his heart, at all, but the thought of him sincerely believing in Namjoon… it’s hard to accept, after what Namjoon’s done to him. Not to mention that he probably doesn’t deserve it.

If anything, Taehyung’s expression becomes lighter, more thoughtful. He tilts his head. “There’s something even stranger than that, though. What’s stranger than Meths trusting each other, stranger than a Meth trusting a normie?” He’s teasing, Namjoon’s pretty sure of that, but it doesn’t make the question any more comfortable, or his use of the derogative, and either Namjoon doesn’t know how to reply, or he doesn’t want to.

“What?” he asks, when it becomes clear the other is waiting for him.

“The fact that you trust Jinnie,” Taehyung replies promptly, with altogether too much relish. And he’s not saying it to cast aspersions on Seokjin’s character, either. It’s a comment on what Namjoon is, or what normies and Meths are, or what their world is… or worse, what Seokjin and Namjoon are, together.

He wants to address a grand total of none of those things, and so, mouth tight (but not as tight as his chest), Namjoon doesn’t. The rest of their autowalk passes in silence, and so does their entrance into the floating community of Glass Harbour. It’s a relief to step off the bridge and pretend to leave the immediate vastness of the ocean behind them.

But not too much of one. Ahead of them the interwoven grid of floating buildings rises up and snatched glimpses of water happen too frequently for Namjoon to forget that the ocean is very much just beneath their feet. Besides, the last time he was here, he was driven straight to and from locations, and he didn’t have any time or inclination to play the tourist. The sights aren’t quite enough to make him forget his unease, but they make a valiant effort.

The block opening up from the bridge is a shopping one, the honeycombed buildings on either side demurely advertising their wares with signs of bronze and silver. Almost all of the structures in this district are an attractive shade of champagne gold, designed with open windows, soft curves and no hard edges. It’s an aesthetic complemented by the plethora of tropical plants flowering around the buildings, some of them even climbing up or through them. There are tiny bridges everywhere, crossing over little spans of water that are there for the artistic appeal and nothing else.

Occasionally both the sidewalks and the roads branch off and slope down, below the building level. Namjoon knows they lead to submerged areas, pathways and shops set in glass tunnels or rooms that take advantage of ‘beautiful’ underwater scenery and lighting, but he’s relieved they never take those sloping ways. Having to be on top of the ocean is bad enough, but going under would try even his equanimity. 

There’s enough to deal with up above, anyways. Here and there are large stepping stones that go through the liquid spans. The walkways also curve around them, leaving the option to just go around, but Taehyung skips nimbly from rock to rock, and going the long way leaves Namjoon feeling like an old man. That’s not enough to convince him to actually try, though many of the people they see take the quicker route. He’s surprised by the childishness, at least until he takes a closer look at the people doing it. They appear as young as twenty, but no one looks a day over forty-five, and of course Meths have agile enough bodies to have fun doing something so frivolous. The only ones who defer are those carrying shopping bags, and there aren’t many of those; that task is left to others, trailing after their Meths with heavy packages and patiently long-suffering expressions.

Compared to the clogged malls Namjoon has been to in Triptych – and not just in the Curve, either – the outdoor shopping centre is practically deserted. He doesn’t have to brush shoulders with anyone even once, and cars only occasionally pass by on the roads between the buildings. No one but the servants are wearing anything close to fatigue or unhappiness on their faces. Several greet Taehyung with smiles that unfailing unnerve Namjoon until he pinpoints why; they all look the same. Same even and white teeth, same width, same sentiment.

For his part, Taehyung falls into the fabrication, at least a little. His greetings are also mechanical, words crafted together into precise forms of politeness and geniality. Still, Namjoon knows he’s isn’t imagining the fact that the Meth looks and sounds and _feels_ more genuine. More sincere. He explains he’s touring around a friend from Harlan’s World, that he’s showing him all the sights, and would they have any great suggestions? And the people they talk to respond to that openness, thaw out, assume grins or laughs that don’t seem like they came straight from a factory. Which isn’t to say that Namjoon feels any more at ease around them, but at least it makes the interactions easier to smile and nod through.

At last, they leave the shopping district, the break indicated by a collection of fountains of various fantastic and improbable shapes that look out at the ocean. Some few Meths lounge on swaths of grass or sit on benches set between the statuesque ornaments, and children – the first Namjoon has seen – play in the fountains, splashing each other and occasionally their watchers, too. A scarce amount of those might actually be their parents, if the clothes and perfect skin are anything to go by, but more are nannies.

Taehyung stares at a redhead child who’s being particularly rambunctious, throwing up great arcs of water over his head. His mother is nearby – another assumption, based on the red hair and designer shawl – laughing at his antics and playfully daring him to splash her.

“My mother used to bring me here,” the Meth comments, and words like that can’t really be said in a way that isn’t wistful. He doesn’t seem to expect a reply.

An uncomfortable, creeping understanding has Namjoon shoving his hands into his jeans’ pockets. Yet more guilt to swallow and supress. There’s always gossip about Meths, running through dime mags and scandal vids, being played out in movies and circling the various blogs and talk stations. He’s even seen op ads for porn experiences incorporating their supposed indiscretions and inclinations. The gossip about Junseo’s wife died out about five years ago, but it had been something of a fireworks display while it was running. It’s not often that Meths get taken before the Protectorate court, after all, and even less so on charges of murder.

The fact that Kim Junseo got off on the charge, and someone else was found guilty, did very little to slow the grinding of the rumor mill. He wonders if Taehyung had been caught up in all of that. A look at the young man’s eyes, all shadowed depth, makes Namjoon think, _Yeah, he was. Maybe still is._

That makes him that much more uncomfortable (worse than uncomfortable, but what word suits the gnawing sensation, like a confession is trying to bite through his throat?) His memory threatens to return to a place he refuses to go. What he’d done had been necessary. It had probably saved lives, or at least saved him from taking more. It’s just… what would Taehyung say if he knew that Namjoon has had business with his father? The kind of business that would fuel the gossips for the next few months, trailing into years? More importantly, what would he do with that information?

It doesn’t bear thinking about… so Namjoon doesn’t. He’s just glad the Meth isn’t watching him.

They move on, and before too long the mansions are coming into view. Mansions. What a misnomer. More like petite palaces. He can’t get a good view of most of the dwellings because of the high walls sprawled around them, but the very length of those same walls assures him each property has an extravagant amount of space. The fact that he can see the upper floors of a decent amount of the mansions, despite the height of the walls and how far back the buildings are set from those walls, is another good indication of their size. His last clue – like he needed it – comes from the few places that have fancily wrought borders with plenty of gaps to see through.

And yeah. Petite palaces indeed.

The last two times he was here, the opulence had sickened and angered him, but now, with Taehyung trailing ahead of him, he feels something deeper. It’s almost as though his fingers are aching for a match to burn the whole place down. What he’d done for Junseo had been necessary (he loves telling himself that), but it had also been largely impersonal. Meths were bodies made up of creds and influence, as uncaring as that implied. Not something you wanted to associate with, but sometimes inevitable to come into contact with. You dealt with them and then moved on, leaving them to their indifferent devices. You didn’t expect the sky to be anything but up, and you didn’t expect Meths to be anything but inhuman.

And then he’d met Seokjin and Taehyung, and both of them are… people. For good or for bad. It makes his previous interactions with other Meths take on a different, far less sterile light. It makes his actions, too, feel that much less detached, as if what he’d done wasn’t unavoidable. Wasn’t, maybe, even necessary, for all that it had seemed that way when he was so desperate to escape. Why couldn’t it have been Seokjin that he had reached out to, all those years ago? Why did it have to be Junseo?

By the time they reach Taehyung’s place, thorny tendrils are snaked through Namjoon’s body, tearing him up on the inside. This territory is finally familiar – smooth black walls and a wrought, blackened steel gate – and it makes him want to turn away. Not out of fear, or at least, not out of a fear of dying. He’s died too many times in his life to care very strongly about that. But this place has seen Namjoon at his very worst, and here he is again, hoping that if it comes to his worst for a second time, it will be for the friends he’s taken to thinking of as his family. That would be a good reason, right? That would absolve him of blame?

He catches Taehyung looking at him, fingers on the buzzer and eyes wide, and tries to put a wry face on it. “Last I was here, I died,” he reminds him, so quietly he’s almost mouthing the words. “It’s not a comfortable place for me.” Not even a lie. The other furrows his brow like he really has forgotten – although Seokjin had told him in the headlong scrabble to get him up to speed – and his mouth opens. Namjoon tenses, waiting for the question that will mean a lot more coming from Junseo’s son than it had from Seokjin.

 _Why did my dad try to have you killed?_

A voice, coming from a little intercom affixed in the gate, interrupts. “Kim residence. If you do not have an appointment and a pass, you will need to arrange to get one before you are allowed entry.” Abruptness bordering on rude, but then again, Namjoon imagines Meths don’t often stroll up on foot. Whoever’s manning the gate probably thinks they’re some kind of foolish salesperson or charity worker.

“Dom, it’s me,” Taehyung says, letting himself be distracted. He waves at the camera and bounces up and down a few times.

“Taehyung? Sir? Who’s with – Never mind, I’ll let you in now.” That’s the problem with absolute influence, Namjoon reflects. Everyone is so afraid of challenging you, they’re willing to let things slide when they shouldn’t. That guy really should have checked Namjoon, even if it would have just given him the perfectly legit lie that Namjoon’s currently wearing. Shoddy work.

“Thanks, Dom!” There’s a click as the gate unlocks, and then it begins to swing open. Taehyung hesitates before adding into the intercom, “Hey, you don’t need to tell Junseo how I arrived when he gets back. Just – say I showed up?” A hint of pleading. Funny. Most Meths he knows would have made that a command. Does that slightly wheedling tone work for Taehyung? It must, if he’s still using it with his security personnel. 

“Mr. Kim isn’t gone, sir.”


	11. Chapter 11

“What?” The Meth goes pale, fast enough to be concerning. “He was supposed to be needlecasting to Osaka.”

“He told Vlad his schedule changed. I don’t know more than that. Sorry, sir. But… I hope you had a pleasant car ride back to the mansion.”

That’s not enough to make Taehyung smile, though he mumbles a thank you into the intercom. This news has upset him enough to get him off their previous conversation, and Namjoon breathes a sigh of relief. It’s not that he’s soul crushingly worried that telling Taehyung about his employment by Junseo will turn the Meth against him – the kid wouldn’t figure out the whole story just from that – but if he tells Taehyung, it’ll probably get back to Seokjin. The more he thinks about it, the more he’s finding that an unbearable prospect. He already had to deal with telling Jimin and Kookie and Yoongi, weathering their shock and dismay and muted censure, and they _know_ what he is.

Seokjin is far more… trusting would be a good word for it. A kind word. And he doesn’t want to break that trust any sooner than he has to, nor the way Seokjin looks at him as if Namjoon is actually someone he admires. Someone he likes. Namjoon, a normie who isn’t even that.

His companion is worried about other things, and as they trail into the estate, Taehyung’s lips move with silent anxiety. Practicing his lines for if they run into his father? Namjoon isn’t as concerned, so long as the Meth can keep the story straight. They’ll be in and out before Junseo can even deign to notice Namjoon, let alone that there’s something a little bit off about any of this. Of course, that’s under the assumption that this isn’t some kind of set up, and that as soon as they get into view of security Taehyung isn’t going to start howling about being kidnapped.

He kind of looks like he wants to start howling, but then again, when they’d been slapping the plan together, Taehyung had been insistent on executing it so quickly precisely _because_ his father wouldn’t be around. He was surprisingly astute and thoughtful during their plotting, bringing a kind of unruffled cunning that shouldn’t have been a shock, given the cutthroat environment he’d grown up in, but he’s definitely less certain now. At the moment, Namjoon would bet his entire cred account that the Meth was wishing they had waited for longer.

This is exactly the kind of uncertainty that normal people – Meths and literally normal people alike – are typically so poor at facing. With the mental equivalent of a shrug, Namjoon just starts scanning the grounds for possible escape routes. If Taehyung turns or breaks, he wants to make a good effort at getting the hell out of here.

He’ll fail, but Seokjin had summed it up perfectly, days ago. _What else can you do at this point?_

Befitting his wealth and status, Junseo’s estate is huge. More than huge. The property hugs an edge of Glass Harbour, and the coolly sharp black house is pressed up right against the ocean, looking over it with all the brooding possessiveness of a conquering tyrant. A good portion of the grounds are beautifully decorated water gardens, each a contained island connected by bridges more varied than those they’ve seen up to this point. Some are traditional, quaint wooden spans, but others are made of metal or cement, even fabric, painted soft yellows, sky blues, burnished gold and ivory. They take interesting turns and pitch to odd heights instead of going straight from one land mass to the next. As they walk up the wide road that cuts from the gate to the house, Namjoon even sees a bridge that goes into the water before coming up on the other side.

He can’t decide if that’s appealingly whimsical or just stupid.

Far, far in the distance, there are more active amenities than tree and fountain scattered gardens. A few tennis and basketball courts, at least one pool, a running track. He knows from his tour, two visits ago, that some of the outbuildings scattered here and there contain gyms, a kennel, an aviary, metal and woodworking shops, wine cellars and even an observatory, complete with a fully functional telescope. Some, his tour guide had mentioned, hadn’t been used by the family for years, were merely maintained in case the fancy should take any of the host of people belonging to the Kim Junseo name.

Once again, his fingers ache for a match. Or maybe a flamethrower. Not a good idea; though he sees no security, just a few groundskeepers trundling through their daily tasks who wave at Taehyung, there’s no way there aren’t a multitude of cameras tracking any and all activity, ready to call on a rotating roster of guards to come boiling up from their various hidey-holes. It’s a strange juxtaposition, the absolute peace of the beautiful scenery next to the violence in his heart, but Namjoon beats it down. No time to be emotional.

They reach the house without anyone bothering them, and it’s more of the same extravagance. Lofty ceilings and decorations that probably cost more than his sleeve, wide windows and glass walls that look out onto the ocean or the gardens. He wants to say the indulgence is tacky. It isn’t. He’d like to call the running themes of gold and black garish. They aren’t. They please the eye and the heart, too, and Namjoon can’t imagine what dwelling in such picturesque perfection could do to a person. Well – actually, he doesn’t have to imagine.

Taehyung navigates through the various corridors and rooms with ease, having warmly dismissed the group of four or five staff members that had come rushing up to greet them when they first entered. Namjoon isn’t lost – memorizing locations is another gift of his training – but it’s still an intimidating expanse of a maze, and he’s glad to let the other man take the lead. Besides, his lungs are doing their best to remind him of his last time here, bringing up that familiar choking sensation. He can imagine about an infinite number of places he’d rather be, and his mind, still caught in the past, agrees.

That makes him think of Seokjin, of dragging the man straight to the spot of his death in that alley, and if the guilt is less familiar than the drowning, it’s all the more uncomfortable for it. There had been no excuse for subjecting the Meth to it except for necessity, the greatest of all excuses, but… it leaves a bad taste in Namjoon’s mouth. Especially considering how Seokjin had reacted, had pulled himself together and tried to dive into his death with a force of will that Namjoon hadn’t even remotely expected from a Meth.

“If we’re lucky, my dad isn’t going to be in his study,” Taehyung murmurs as a marble white staircase comes into view. “If he is… I don’t know, he wasn’t supposed to even be here.” He nervously tries to sweep back his shaggy hair, which sticks gamely to his sweaty forehead despite the attempt. 

“Let’s check out the situation before we get too concerned about it,” Namjoon suggests. Taehyung looks at him sidelong, and whatever he sees must be reassuring, because he takes a deep breath and starts up the stairs.

Despite his words, Namjoon is wondering what they can do if Junseo is in his study. That’s where the passes are kept, and Taehyung had emphasized the need to get them as quickly as possible. Apparently, there aren’t that many left, and within a few days, Junseo and his other children might have given them all away. It’s an incredibly archaic idea, almost barbaric, to have little cards of plastic as a means of entry, but apparently that’s the point. A little olden day flare to give the Meth partygoers something new to titter over. They’re not possible to copy, according to Taehyung, not in the same way as some general access chips are, and while one random friend might be let into the house without comment, security during a party event is different. They need those passes, and soon; it’s why they’re doing this so hastily in the first place.

The closed study door is an ebony stained mahogany affair, imposing in its thickness, and it’s to his credit that Taehyung hardly hesitates in front of it. “If he’s there,” he says, “stay out of sight. I’ll try to get him to come out and you can grab them from the desk.” Then, not waiting for a reply, the man knocks. Waits. Knocks again. When there’s no response, he tries the handle, so gingerly it looks like he’s expecting it to burn him.

It won’t open. He mutters, “Damn it,” and then stands in silence, his hand still on the knob.

It’s hard to tell if the Meth is lost in thought or merely paralyzed, and Namjoon prompts him. “You said you could get it open.”

“Yeah…” But Taehyung doesn’t move, and his grip has become white-knuckled. After a moment, as Namjoon makes an insistent sound, he removes his hand, wipes it on his pants. “It’s just… He’s going to know I was in here.”

“We talked about that. You said you’d claim you forgot some information about a client he’s told you to make a deal with.” His voice is a bit sharper than he means it to be, but time is not on their side here. If Junseo is actually home, Namjoon can’t afford to have Taehyung freeze up now.

Under his breath, the Meth says, “I just didn’t think he’d find out so soon after I did it.” Shifting, the man wipes his hands again, and his voice actually shakes with those words.

“It’s that bad?” Namjoon asks, because it doesn’t seem like he’s going to be able to get Taehyung to move unless they deal with whatever is stopping him.

“If he had time to blow off steam in Osaka, he probably wouldn’t care much. But if he’s here when he gets the notification that I unlocked the door…” With a blank stare that Namjoon doesn’t like – it reminds him of bomb survivors, their eyes transfixed – Taehyung adds tonelessly, “It’s going to be bad.”

Another intense wave of loathing surges up, and Namjoon almost banishes it until he notices that his companion’s eyes have flickered to him, like the forceful emotion is a fire, drawing his gaze. Seeing that, he doesn’t stop himself from feeling it, just regulates it a little, brings up his desperation mixed with a heavy dose of sympathy. The emotions aren’t lies, they’re just… displayed in a certain way.

They _need_ those passes.

“Seokjin is counting on us,” Namjoon says, low and urgent, and the empath’s flinch shakes his resolve. But it’s true and he’s not above manipulating someone to protect his family. “If we don’t get these passes… It’s only a matter of time before Rafa or your father catches on that we’re trying to find something to fight them with, and then Seokjin is dead.”

“Not just Jin-hyung,” Taehyung breathes, an unnerving observation, but his petrified expression is warming into one of conflicted concern. Really? Concern for all of them, when he’s known them for all of an afternoon?

Namjoon doesn’t get it, but he’ll use it. “Not just Seokjin,” he agrees immediately. “We’re all going to be screwed. But not if you get us the passes. Not if you prove yourself as strong as I think you are.” Are those footsteps? His ears are old hands at discarding false alarms, and after a moment he decides they’re too far away to be an immediate threat. It doesn’t stop the pressure bubbling through his veins.

Slowly Taehyung shakes his head. “Strong? You don’t even know me.”

Ironically enough, he’s weakening, and Namjoon keeps pushing. “I don’t know you, but Seokjin does. He _trusts_ you, Taehyung. He told me he knows you’ll never let him down.” Not in those words, but the sentiment had been there. “Besides, I’ve always been a good judge of character.”

A pause that scrapes against Namjoon’s steel nerves, making even them jangle. He casts a quick glance at the staircase, the look only partially designed to hurry Taehyung along. His mind is a contrast of screaming concentration and forced calm, thoughts boiling along the deliberately clear paths he’s setting up. If the Meth won’t do it, could he break in? He knows something about lock set-ups, but not exactly enough to confront the state-of-the-art system Junseo undoubtedly has. Maybe they could wait until Junseo returns to the office, and somehow keep the door from –

“You really like Jinnie, so maybe you do know something. Okay.” And without any more hesitation, like a man hurtling himself off a steep cliff and praying there’s water below, Taehyung suddenly lifts up his wrist interface, taps a few times. “Access Kim Junseo’s study,” he says, barely stumbling over the words.

In cool synthetic tones, the device responds, “Access to Kim Junseo’s study is restricted.”

“Request by Kim Taehyung, override restriction.”

There’s a gentle whirring sound, and a landscape painting hanging next to the door parts down the middle and folds back into the wall, revealing an ID screen. Taehyung’s watch makes a request. “Please provide proof of identity.” He licks his finger, presses it against the panel. Another hum as the pad analyzes his DNA and then sterilizes the surface, and a red light pulses over his face from the screen. A list of information in green scrolls down the monitor, too fast for Namjoon to catch anything but Taehyung’s name here and there. “DNA recognized. Stack recognized. Welcome, Kim Taehyung.”

The door clicks, and swings slightly ajar. They both stare at it, nonplused, for all of two seconds, before Taehyung audibly gulps. “Stay out here. If anyone comes, let me know with your ONI.” He taps his wrist again, and there’s a message showing up on Namjoon’s watch, asking him to connect with someone called Vante. When he tilts his head, Taehyung says, “Yeah, that’s me,” and then he’s pushing his way into the room, the door swinging shut behind him. Namjoon accepts the request and settles down to wait.

It turns out to be a very good thing that they didn’t bring Jungkook. He has no patience with waiting for even short periods of time, and the time Namjoon finds himself loitering outside isn’t short by any definition of the word. Was Taehyung _making_ the damn passes? What was so hard about grabbing them from whatever drawer they were stored in? Or maybe he wasn’t grabbing them at all. Maybe he was currently making a call to security, and Namjoon’s about to be –

He really is getting rusty. It’s appalling. There’s absolutely no point in worrying about things he can’t control, and he’s done what he can to control the situation. If he’s suddenly set upon, he’ll send a signal to Jimin, waiting in the apartment, and they’ll move to a different place. If his vital signs stop – if he dies – he’s programmed his ONI to send the message as soon as it happens. Whatever occurs here, whatever is happening behind that closed door, his family isn’t going to be taken by surprise. They’ll be as safe as Namjoon can make them. All he needs to do now is manage the worry.

Easier said than done, the task more than slightly hindered by his history within this gilded slaughterhouse, but one by one Namjoon murders his doubts and with ruthless efficiency shoves them into the memory grave. They’ll resurrect in time, yet for now he’s left with a silence in his mind that’s a good companion to the silence in the hall. His ears strain, not desperate but merely attentive, and for several more moments all they catch is nothing.

Until they catch something.

The echo of footsteps, coming not from downstairs but from somewhere on this floor. It’s hard to tell exactly how close – but definitely getting closer. Exhaling hard, Namjoon mutters into his pre-prepared watch, “Someone’s coming. Hurry.” He shifts his weight and shifts his thoughts, assembling appropriate excuses depending on who it is, staff or security or one of the family. It’d be much easier if Taehyung could come out, though. So much easier. And if he doesn’t come out –

Junseo comes around the corner, eyes on the glowing screen his ONI is projecting from his wrist device. Namjoon’s breath hitches, his fingers curling even as he casts about for a way to slow the Meth – and Taehyung slips out of the study, closing the door behind himself with a dull thud. Did he sneak something into his coat pocket? Namjoon can’t tell. 

The noise has Junseo’s eyes coming up, and before Namjoon can feel anything approaching relief that his companion is out, those eyes land on him. He has to physically fight the urge to take a step back. A month was enough to soften the insidious power of that pale gaze in his memory, but he’s forcefully reminded of it now. It’s not that it’s emotionless. Detachment would be preferable to the contempt harnessed by that look, a derision so sharp it burrows through bones and strips away flesh. _When I blink, you will be dead and buried. What, then, is the point of you?_ his ancient eyes ask.

To call Junseo a handsome man is to call a painting art. It’s an obvious remark that misses making any kind of relevant observation. He _is_ a handsome man, with his artfully curly black hair and sharp cheeks and delicate mouth that can look gracious when called to the task. He is also one of the most inhuman humans that Namjoon has ever had the bad luck to run into. Holly has more of a soul in her than Junseo; if his isn’t dead, the ragged pieces that show through his grey eyes barely deserve to be called alive.

When Junseo’s regard turns to his son, Namjoon can’t even be thankful. The derision, already so cruel, turns into something even more malignant as the man looks at Taehyung. It’s not cold, either. The hate curling his lip actually burns in Junseo’s eyes, and if Namjoon will remember anything about Taehyung, days or years from now, it will be that he meets the spiteful expression and doesn’t flinch.

“Taehyung,” the Meth drawls, and comes closer with careful steps that suggest he’s reluctant to put himself into their staining presence. “You were in my office. Why?”

Wetting his lips, Taehyung tries for a smile that misses the latch and falls off his mouth. “It’s about the Hargrave deal you wanted me to make. I’ve been talking with them and I’ve made progress, but I wanted to doublecheck some of the numbers you were willing to offer.”

“You forgot them? I don’t recall there being all that many.”

“No, I didn’t – I was just doublechecking,” Taehyung repeats weakly. “I know how much you’ll be making with the deal and I didn’t want to make a mistake.”

Under Junseo’s bleak gaze, his son wilts but doesn’t look away. “You didn’t want to make a mistake? So, there is a first time for everything.” How can Taehyung stand so straight with such contempt beating down on him? And where the _hell_ did Junseo get off thinking he could just speak like that? Appalled, Namjoon’s head shakes against his will, just a trifle, drawing Junseo’s attention. 

“Care to introduce me to your… friend?” Again, his eyes flick to Namjoon, who stills, mastering the revulsion and adopting a vaguely conciliatory smile. He has to remind himself that Junseo isn’t an exception to the Meth rules. He might be one of the creators of the playbook, but that doesn’t change the fact that he can be dealt with, manipulated just like anyone else.

For his part, Taehyung’s face is drained. Not – quite – emotionless, but empty of all the vigor and beaming life that’s so strongly become his signature in Namjoon’s mind. He remembers the name, though. “This is Kim Doyoon. I don’t think he’s someone you would know, dad.”

“Not someone I would know?” Junseo’s lips writhe into a sneer, and it’s a strange sensation to be so thoroughly wiped from the man’s interest. Namjoon can almost feel himself disappearing from the Meth’s vision. “I take it you picked him up while you were wandering around the city? That he attached himself to you like some bloodsucking flea?” Taehyung doesn’t reply, though Namjoon can see the thin curve of his jaw working. “Do you know what else picks up fleas, Taehyung?”

The silence is dead and crawling with maggots, and Junseo’s sneer doesn’t fade as he watches both Tae and Namjoon shift uncomfortably. When it becomes obvious that he’s expecting a response, Taehyung’s low voice limps out. “I don’t know.”

“A dog, Taehyung. Is that what I bred? A cur instead of a boy? A flea-infested mongrel?” Finally, Taehyung’s head drops, and there’s something withering up inside of him even as Namjoon holds his breath to control the steely rage threatening to erupt from his principled hands. He hates him, Seokjin had said, but this, this is –

Far from satisfying him, his son’s physical submission seems to goad Junseo’s voice to greater cruelty. “Maybe I shouldn’t be surprised. Your bitch of a mother liked to pick up strays, too.”

“Dad…” Taehyung whispers, his eyes skittering to Namjoon and then away in a pleading reminder that father and son aren’t alone.

There’s a wrenching agony in Namjoon’s chest, and it hurts so badly that he’s almost surprised he doesn’t hear his ribs cracking. Before this, he’s never been certain of the empath’s abilities, never been positive his emotions are being affected, yet there’s no doubt in his mind now. The sympathy and sense of obligation screaming for him to do something aren’t unexpected, but they’re amplified to the point where he’s actually trembling with the effort of containing it, and that doesn’t happen. Not to Namjoon. He’s seen too much, expects too little in the way of human kindness, to be this shaken by what he’s hearing. No matter what role he might have played in it.

Junseo has a different reaction. His sneer morphs into a snarl at the other’s plea. “Don’t you dare try to use that pathetic garbage on me!” He closes the small space between him and Taehyung with a sudden lunge. Before either younger man can react, his hand is around his son’s throat, and he slams him into the wall, narrowly missing the painting that covers the security panel. Taehyung makes a choked sound, but far worse is the way his hands stay limp at his side, making no effort to shove his father away or protect himself.

Face right next to Taehyung’s, close enough that he’s spitting on him, Junseo continues through gritted teeth. “I gave you your implants, and you try to pull that snivelling act with me? You dare to bring some street rat into my home, and then think you can get away with it if you cry a little?”

“Dad, I –” Junseo slaps him hard enough to rock his head to the side.

“Sir. I’ve told you, if you’re too stupid to learn to use the gift I gave you, you call me sir.”

It’s too much. Is it Taehyung’s power or Namjoon’s humanity that has him shuddering? There’s a long, thin gold statue on display not far from where they are. He could grab it. Easily. He could smash in Junseo’s head with it. Easily. It wouldn’t spell the end of Junseo – even destroying his stack won’t, not with him uploading his information to a secure link every day – but it could end this. He could take Taehyung back to the apartment and they could think up a new plan, one that doesn’t involve him standing by while the boy gets beaten because of what Namjoon made him do. 

He takes a step – And Taehyung’s voice comes, full of cracks but not quite falling apart. “Don’t!”

Junseo takes that as a protest, slaps him for a second time, but when Taehyung pulls his head back around, his eyes aren’t on his father. They’re on Namjoon. A bit of blood is pooling on his lip, and when he mouths _don’t_ again it trickles down, a thin red stream that trails to his chin and drips onto his throat. The rich colour against his skin is jarring and too familiar all at once, and Namjoon slams to a halt, his breathing coming thick and laboured through his open mouth. _Go,_ Taehyung tells him wordlessly, but now that he’s stopped, he can’t seem to make himself move again.

Noticing the direction of his son’s gaze, Junseo turns, just slightly, still pinning Taehyung to the wall with cruel force. “You,” he spits, and for all that he’s addressing Namjoon, his wild eyes aren’t really seeing him, no more than they see walls or furniture. “Get out. You are not welcome here, and if I have to repeat myself, I’m going to have you beaten to within an inch of your miserable life for trespassing.”

_Go,_ Taehyung’s wide eyes beg. _Stay,_ a faltering part of Namjoon demands. _Leave,_ whispers a colder fragment, all logic. _You can’t do anything here._

Namjoon turns on his heel and walks away, each mechanical step reminding him of the worst he used to be and reassuring him that absolutely nothing has changed.

\---

The gate clangs shut behind him with discordant scorn, mirroring his insides perfectly. Namjoon paces back to the fountain park he and Tae had passed on the way, moving so slowly it takes at least double the time. Every meter he adds between himself and the house is a relief and a condemnation. Already, his emotions are simmering lower, dampened by the constant stream of completely valid justifications his mind is offering. It’s a habit, one rooted in him so deeply he doesn’t know what it will do to him to tear it out completely. He’s tried trimming it, tried curbing the impulse to deaden his feelings. For all that his past has given him a good deal of tools, no amount of logic can reassure Namjoon that his ability – his need – to turn away from passions is anything but inhuman and ultimately despicable.

The issue is that most of what he’s managed to cut away so far hasn’t revealed anything pretty. Just blood and grief, guilt and shame, hate and hurt. What’s the point of keeping his emotions, if that’s all that’s inside of him? Is it really making him a better person to embrace those stained sentiments?

Not today, it certainly isn’t. Numb, Namjoon sits on an empty bench, one of the ones facing the ocean. Had Taehyung even managed to get the passes? He’d thought he’d seen the man shove something out of sight, before Junseo had looked up, but he wasn’t sure then and he’s even less sure now. If he hadn’t…

_I’ll have to go back to the drawing board,_ Namjoon concludes tiredly. _Maybe Taehyung is wrong, maybe Yoongi really could create imitations the passes. Or maybe we could go back to holding Taehyung and seeing where it will get us with Junseo. He might still value the sleeve enough…_

It isn’t until the taste of bile floods his mouth that Namjoon becomes fully conscious of where his thoughts have led, and he stiffens. Taehyung’s imploring eyes crowd his vision until they’re all he can see, and he mutters a curse, earning a scandalized look from one of the women standing nearby. He doesn’t notice. Jesus Christ. Had he really just been thinking about doing that to Taehyung? After everything he’d just seen? After what Taehyung had done for them? Wasn’t what he’d done to Taehyung’s mother enough?

_Anything and everything,_ that cold voice whispers, and with a groan he drops his head into his hands, covering his ears. That does nothing but make him more isolated, more alone with the thoughts. What is he even doing here? Why is he pretending that he deserves to lead his friends in the right direction when he can’t even do it for himself? If he’s not careful he’s going to carry them right to hell, and what will it matter if they survive after that? And he seriously had the gall to judge Taehyung for not doing enough, when all along the Meth was at least doing what he could. God…

His ONI vibrates, and a text message from Vante pops up.

_I got them!!!! Where r u?_

The thought of having to face Taehyung after running away makes him hesitate to answer and kills most of his gladness at the news. He thinks of returning back to the apartment with empty hands and the memory of his cowardice, with nothing tangible to show for it. He thinks of Jimin and Jungkook’s crestfallen looks, of Seokjin’s frantic eyes as he searches for the friend he’s protected far more fiercely than anything Namjoon has managed today.

He thinks, and because he doesn’t want to keep doing that, he replies.

_At the park. With the fountains._

When Taehyung arrives, he’s limping. It’s not obvious – and he’s quite obviously trying to hide it – but one step is more of a trip than anything, and he’s favouring one side. He’s quick to sit down, but also surprisingly quick to flash the white plastic cards that have the entrance permissions etched into them. “They’re all here!” the Meth whisper-shouts, his glee pulling his mouth into a boxy grin.

As if his lip isn’t swollen. As if his cheek isn’t bleeding from a cut, maybe from one of the many rings that had flashed on Junseo’s fingers. As if Namjoon hadn’t just left him to suffer his father’s unhinged wrath.

The Meth is waiting for something from him, expectant excitement practically vibrating through his limbs, and Namjoon stares at him, at a loss for what he wants. At a loss for what to say. Does he just pretend it all went as planned, move on? Taehyung seems fine with that, but there’s an easy flexibility to the other man that suggests he’ll go whichever way Namjoon points, and that’s…

That’s been abused enough for one day.

“I’m glad you got them all,” he says, voice husky with the weight of the things it’s trying to hold. “And…” _I didn’t realize how bad it would be. Your pain was worth it. Your pain, all these years, was necessary. I had to escape. I had to. If I had intervened, we both would have been caught, and then maybe the rest of them, too._ More justifications, too sour for Namjoon to keep on his tongue, so he swallows them. “Sorry,” he eventually says.

Somehow, Taehyung’s beam doesn’t dim, not a bit. “Don’t worry about it!” he says. “I think the old man is getting arthritic, anyways. He doesn’t hit as hard as he used to.” A guileless grin, candid eyes. It’s impossible to tell how old Taehyung is without asking. How long ago is ‘used to’ in the playfully delivered lie? How long has he been feeling his father’s hands on his throat? 

That’s not information Namjoon wants to know. Or even needs to know. “But you – got away okay?” he asks, awkward and also redundant given that the Meth is standing right in front of him.

“Yup!” His companion declares it like he’s claiming something. “As Junseo likes to put it, I do enjoy my sulks after he’s tried to beat some sense into my empty head. He’ll think I’m off to drown my wounds.” Was that a cloud – the shadow of a cloud – passing over Taehyung’s face?

Namjoon can’t be sure, but it makes his lips thin. “Sorry,” is all he can say, and it will have to be enough. It isn’t.

“Oh… don’t worry about it,” Taehyung repeats. He pauses, and then says, with a blitheness that hints at a far heavier sentiment, “He’ll get what he deserves, one day. It’s only a matter of time.” His hand steals up to caress his throat, hidden under the turtleneck he’s wearing, and there it is, the darkness. Namjoon’s definitely not imagining it this time. It does something rather horrible to the Meth’s face, twists it in a way that’s difficult to look at head on. When Namjoon glances away and then back again, it’s gone.

“Anyways, I’m sorry I took so long. I thought I’d take a quick look at my dad’s computer.” An impatient silence as Taehyung waits for his reply, and if Namjoon thinks too much about how the son resembles the father, he’s going to disturb himself beyond the point of comfort.

“Did you find anything?” he asks, indulging his companion’s hopeful anticipation instead.

Tapping the side of his nose, Taehyung leans closer. “Dad’s involved with lots of businesses, and one message caught my eye. Turns out he’s communicating with a certain club. Care to guess which one?”

That’s a jolt, the newness of it searing away some of Namjoon’s depression. “The Ring?” he guesses sharply, although it’s not really much of a guess at all. So, what? Was it a front? Just a convenient meeting place where Junseo could be sure of business loyalties? Or something else?

Taehyung hums in agreement. “Ringwanderung! And even more interesting, he’s sponsoring a party there in about two months, a little before the one he’s hosting here.” 

“Do you think he’ll be there?”

“Kim Junseo? At the Ring? Uh, no.” The Meth shakes his head fervently. “He wouldn’t be caught dead there. But I’m guessing someone will be. One of his people. Jinnie said they’re after a disk, right? Well, I bet that’s what this is about. Contacting the gang on their terms… if they really have the disk.”

Namjoon leans back, the bench a solid presence for him to anchor himself to as his mind starts flying. The Ring would be a far lower risk than going to the gathering at Junseo’s mansion. And who knew – maybe the trade-off was happening at the club, not at the Meth party. Maybe they could get their hands on the information without stepping foot in that fucked up house. Maybe he wouldn’t have to see Taehyung interact with Junseo again. Maybe –

Maybe he’s getting ahead of himself.

“Namjoon?” Taehyung asks from beside him, full of puppyish energy. “What do we do next?”

He stares out at the ocean, layer upon layer of frothy, dark blue waves folding over and under each other. Namjoon’s no expert, but the disturbed churning, coupled with the thunderous clouds just barely visible on the horizon, make it look like a storm is coming. A bad one. Taking in a deep breath of the salty air, Namjoon forces it to cycle through his lungs without gagging or choking. As he exhales, he looks away from the water and to Taehyung.

“We plan,” he says simply. “And… we get you and Seokjin ready.”

Taehyung’s eyes are wide. “Ready for what?”

The bruise that’s already forming along his eye is a mirror image of the one Jungkook had given Seokjin’s sleeve. Namjoon stands, frenetic edginess dancing through his limbs. He makes himself smile at the Meth.

“For anything.”


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not gonna lie, this is one of my fave chapters to date. Hope you enjoy!

“Get your arm up! What the hell are you trying to take out, their toes?”

Jin blinks, attempting to clear the sweat from his eyes while pulling his aching arm up. “It’s not like that would be a _to_ tal loss.”

In the shooting booth next to them, a chuckle bursts from behind the screen, and though the boisterous sound dies quickly, he can still just make out intermittent snickers from Taehyung’s mentor. It makes a smooth, pleased smugness settle in his chest, like a cat curling up, and he lifts his head higher.

Jungkook is less amused. “Now where are you looking? Get your damn eyes down!” Uncharitably, Seokjin thinks that maybe he didn’t catch the joke. Except when he side-eyes his own tutor, he finds the younger man scrunching up his nose, lips doing their level best to put up a scowl when it’s obvious a grin is lurking barely below the surface. He catches Jin’s look, and there’s a long second where he fights with himself.

The scowl wins in the end, but Jin would bet good creds it hadn’t been an easy battle. “Eyes!” Jungkook barks, back to serious, and how did he end up with the guy who disliked him as his teacher?

It’s Taehyung’s fault. And, since he’s feeling uncharitable, Jungkook’s, too. The two had been paired when their training had begun, and though the first few days had been great – sullen looks from Jungkook, uncharacteristic withdrawal from Taehyung – by day three it had all gone downhill. Quite frankly (and being completely, utterly hypocritical, which Jin is not currently acknowledging), they began to act like _children._ Yes, Taehyung flinging his fries at Jungkook had been grounds to start a war, but couldn’t Jungkook have been the bigger man? Shown the world how immature Meths were?

No, of course not.

They hadn’t been able to hold it together since. Giggling, cackling, shoving each other, throwing food, they were about as focused as puppies in a henhouse. (Jin’s not entirely sure what a henhouse is, but if it involves chickens and pups, it’s an amusing picture.) He’s not surprised – people can’t hold anything against Taehyung, least of all a class-wide grudge. Hostile people don’t usually warm up to him quite so quickly, but that probably just means Jungkook isn’t as unfriendly as he’s pretending to be.

With his usual self-sacrificing – hopefully it’s a self-sacrifice – nature, Namjoon had tolerated the lack of concentration for all of another few days, and then declared they would be switching up partners. And here Jin is, about a week later, Jungkook at his shoulder, doing his best to hit a target that seems too small, some twenty feet away. Mostly he’s failing, just like he has been since they started on these lessons. He would very much like to blame the mouth breather at his side. He _does_ blame the mouth breather at his side, albeit in that shallow, half-hearted way that’s only felt by a person five seconds away from giving ground.

Once he finally admits it’s not Jungkook’s fault (which should happen in the next six hours or so), he’ll have to confront the uncomfortable churning in his stomach. It’s a surprisingly difficult task. After all, when in his life has he ever had to feel jealous? Not with his siblings, who received a reasonably equal amount of presents and affection from their parents. Not with his friends, most of whom were neither richer nor better looking nor more charismatic nor more well liked than he was. And certainly not with Taehyung, whose shining personality and powerful connections could only have been cause for resentment if he didn’t have a monster for a father.

Except that Jin is jealous now. It’s just… he’d been partnered with Namjoon, before. And losing him is adding insult to the already present injury of having Taehyung be able to joke around with the kid who’s been giving Seokjin a frosty reception since the day they met. Jungkook’s still not exactly high on Jin’s presence, and it’s been more than a month since they met.

Never mind Jungkook’s starry eyes whenever Seokjin mentions making any kind of food. That hardly counts as being _liked_. 

“More like being taken advantage of,” he grumbles under his breath, barely able to hear the words through the protective film over his ears.

“What?” Jungkook’s frowning at him, and Jin forces a smile.

“Nothing, Just reminding myself to breathe.” He has a bad habit of holding his breath while firing a gun, apparently. That had never been an issue when his parents had taken him shooting – the issue was mainly missing, because he didn’t take it seriously – but shooting in real life is different from virtual reality. Even though he knows his parents had paid for the best, most authentic simulation possible, Jin still thinks the gun feels heavier now. Clumsier. The muzzle seems too weighty to aim properly. It’s hard to separate it from that ghostly memory he still has, of a blocky barrel hovering over him as he bled out.

The trigger is more difficult to pull, too, Or maybe that’s just the difference between real life and VR in general.

Jungkook rolls his eyes. “If you have to remind yourself to breathe, we might be in worse trouble than I thought.”

It’s either a pleasant distraction or an infuriating annoyance to fall to squabbling. “Yah! A student’s faults are the teacher’s failings.”

“What book did you read that from? And how much dust did you have to blow off of it, first?”

“You know what a book is? And reading, too? I’m dumbfounded!” He’s getting red in his ears, he can sense the heat.

“Do you feel dumbfounded pretty often? I heard there’re shrinks who can –”

“Guys!” Namjoon’s voice cuts through the lane divider, and they subside, glaring at each other. But the narrow eyes aren’t – sharp. If anything, the words bubbling in Jin’s throat feel bright and shiny, eager without any fear or spite behind them. It’s a vast improvement from the beginning, for all that Jin still really wants to argue. But he holds his tongue, because unlike some people, _he_ can be mature.

Okay, so there isn’t _much_ spite behind them.

Jungkook also refocuses, biting at his lip and nudging Jin’s arms a little straighter. “Okay,” he says, barely pouting at Namjoon’s reprimand. “Let’s try again.”

Give it to him, snide comments aside, he’s a thorough teacher. Seokjin finds it a bit odd that Jungkook can hardly focus long enough to learn how to properly peel a potato, but he can make Jin reset his stance and bring the gun up to the right position for over an hour without flagging. Maybe he just likes seeing Jin sweat.

And God, does he sweat. The poorly lit dungeon they’re shooting in is called On Target and it doesn’t have any kind of air conditioning. It’s stifling. Apparently, it’s an illegal range, allowing the use of banned weapons, and thus the miserable setting and rather dubious clientele. The ceiling is too low, the lights too orange, and the protective contacts he’s wearing are making his eyes dry and itchy. In virtual, there were none of these distractions, and he’s starting to think that maybe his resounding lack of success might actually be justly attributed to the conditions.

Except that it can’t be. In the stall next to him, Taehyung’s already moving on to jerking targets, and there’s no way he’s ever done shooting at a coupon course like this one. He’s practiced more, sure – Junseo makes him go at least a few times a year – but that doesn’t seem to justify how much further Taehyung’s progressed with his handgun.

More jealousy. An urge to quit. But Seokjin sets his jaw and keeps trying, ignoring the mounting frustration that looms at the back of his mind and casts shadows over his few successes.

When he misses the large, round mark for the fifteenth time in a row, bad even for him, the frustration peaks and he has to strangle the urge to chuck the gun away. Possibly at Jungkook’s head. Breathing heavily, he drops his sore arm, shoulders tense for the next taunting remark. It doesn’t come.

“Let’s take a break,” Jungkook suggests, peeling off the little tabs protecting his ears. He leaves the contacts in, and ungraciously Seokjin follows his lead, his scowl feeling ugly even without a mirror to see it.

They pass by the other pair. Taehyung, absorbed in aiming down the long lane, doesn’t notice their departure. Namjoon does, and sends Jin a smile over his shoulder that’s probably supposed to be encouraging. In the mood he’s in, it just feels patronizing, and, throat tight, Seokjin looks away. His gaze skips restlessly across the wide basement, landing on men and women practicing with their own weapons before taking off to the next sight, anxious not to linger for too long and accidentally draw attention.

That’s one of the Rules. There aren’t that many of them, but Namjoon spelled them out so forcefully the day they’d started letting Jin leave the apartment – about two weeks ago – that they still ring in Jin’s head, echoes of a bell that hasn’t quite waned into silence. Don’t draw attention. Don’t pick any fights. If a fight is unavoidable, don’t get in the way. Don’t get caught by the Meths or the gang or the police. If they catch you, don’t say anything. Don’t admit to anything. If they hurt you, scream. Scream very loudly, but don’t say anything.

When Jin had mildly suggested that the list was just a little on the negative side, Namjoon had looked at him, quite coldly, and said, “You still don’t get it. And you better pray to your parents’ God that you never do.”

The lunch meeting had adjourned on a distinctly awkward note, and while it had eventually smoothed out between them, the reprimand lingers in Jin’s mind. Another reminder that they’ve all experienced things he can’t even imagine – and a reminder that they don’t understand what he’s been through, either. Just another tally to add to the good old Things to be Mad About board.

“Are you just gonna stand there, or…?”

Yoongi’s drawl pries him out of his thoughts, and Jin blinks as he realizes he’s followed Jungkook on autopilot, out of the range and into the lounge area of On Target. It’s a big room with a higher ceiling than the range, the plain beige walls and round metal tables scattered throughout not doing much to make it seem like less of a prison. Of course, nowadays the prisons he’s thinking of only exist on the screen of Jin’s TV, or on backwater planets without the technology to store stacks for any length of time. In an age of refinement and justice and efficiency, prisons don’t contain bodies. Just minds.

He’s sinking again, and Jin shakes his hands impatiently as he takes a seat opposite Yoongi and Jungkook. The two aren’t quite touching shoulders, but then again, he can’t see what’s going on under the table, either. There’s a menu on the table in front of him, and more for a distraction than out of hunger, he picks it up, starts flipping through.

“I wouldn’t order anything, if I were you. This place’s food makes Namjoon’s cooking look like, uh, yours.”

Jin cracks a thin smile at Jungkook’s comment, and the slightly grainy pictures he’s looking at don’t refute the statement. It feels odd to hold the menu in his hands instead of having it floating in front of his eyes, pulled into being by his ocular displays after they’ve connected with the restaurant’s network. It’s even odder to actually pay attention to the numbers next to the food options, and for several moments Jin studies the prices. They might as well be braille for all that they mean to him. Seventy-two creds. Is that a good price, or…?

“How’d it go?” Yoongi asks the question without looking up from the collection of wires, metal frames, circuit boards and tools cluttering his half of the table.

At first Jungkook wiggles his head indecisively, and Jin’s smile freezes. Eventually, the younger man says cautiously, “It went better than yesterday.”

Given that Seokjin could have conceivably worn a blindfold and still have done better than yesterday, that’s not quite a compliment. Yoongi hums in response, his mint-coloured hair hiding his expression as he picks over the pieces, hunting down a particular part in the mess. Jin relaxes. He likes it when the hacker is involved in… hacking things. Or whatever he’s doing now. He’s so much less likely to pick up on Jin’s failings, perceived or otherwise.

Finding what he was looking for, Yoongi starts fiddling around with it, dextrous fingers obscuring most of what he’s doing. Threading a wire through it, maybe? Hard to tell.

Hard to care about, too. He’s quite happy to fall back into a sulking consideration of both his numerous faults and the faults of the people around him, but Jungkook takes an interest in the mound of technology. “Are you close to being finished, hyung?”

“Impatient, huh?” If Jin had asked that question, Yoongi would have bitten his head off and chewed it up for good measure, but the hacker’s voice is teasing when he glances at Jungkook.

“It’ll be really cool to see them working,” Jungkook replies, earnest and open. Far more open than he is with anyone else, usually.

“Give it… ten more days. I should have at least one finished by then.”

Mouth crumpling into a pout, Jungkook leans back, crosses his arms. “That long?” he whines.

Yoongi rattles his spit in his mouth, head cocked. “You know someone else who can put together three masks for basically the cost of supplies?”

“No, but…”

“No, you don’t.” The hacker laughs, low and quiet, and Jungkook grins with him. They fit well together, these two. They both tend to fade a bit into the background, right up until the point that they don’t. And then they’re both passionate, demanding. Their anger doesn’t match perfectly – Jungkook’s is reactive, emotional, whereas Yoongi’s is significantly colder, anchored deep in resentment – but it always seems to be geared toward the same thing. Meths.

Being part of the cursed species, Seokjin always feels more hesitant around them than he does around Jimin and Namjoon. Despite his complaining, Jungkook _has_ warmed up to him. They squabble more than fight these days, and it’s getting a little easier to admit that some of his antics are genuinely funny. Even Yoongi’s stopped scowling whenever Jin comes into view. But despite that, the friction is still there, threatening sparks and maybe even a fire, maybe even more intimidating than before because it’s hard to know what will set off a flare of temper amidst the general peace. It makes him – honest only to himself – a little bit afraid to talk in their presence.

Which is an excellent reason to do just that. He’ll hold his tongue in the presence of anyone, normies included, when he’s dead. “How’d you learn to do all of this stuff?” His wide gesture encompasses the tangled electronics, but he’s getting at more than that. It’s a question that’s been nagging at him since he learned about Yoongi’s talents, and, surliness making him incautious, Seokjin throws it out with a volume that’s probably too short of belligerence.

The silence immediately following the inquiry makes him regret asking it. Just when Jin thinks getting up and walking away might be the only way to save what shreds of dignity he has left, Jungkook nudges Yoongi, ignores his sharp exhale and then nudges him again.

His sigh is far from civil, but Yoongi relents. “A long while back, I went to a tech uni. Took courses, all that shit.”

“A school taught you how to hack into police stations?”

Can anyone do a bland face better than the hacker? “It was a real good school.”

Jungkook giggles at Jin’s expression, yet nonetheless prods Yoongi for a third time. “It – I learned a lot, but it didn’t work out. I got expelled.” His eyebrow jumps, sardonic and self-mocking. “Unbelievable, right? Me, expelled? Well, no degree, no family to pay my way…” The jab isn’t as sharp as it could have been, and Jin maintains his interested look. “I got wrapped up in some shit. Then I got into some even deeper shit. Turns out, that’s where you make the serious creds.”

His hands hover over the stack of electronics, but they’ve stopped actually grabbing anything. Watching their uncertainty, Seokjin can feel cautious curiosity rearing its head inside himself, chasing away the grumpiness. He hadn’t actually expected the green haired man to reply honestly.

“I joined a group of skimmers. They taught me a shit ton of stuff about – oh, for fuck’s sake. You don’t even know what skimmers are?”

Flushing, Jin is about to protest – although it’s too late to erase his clueless expression – when Jungkook intercedes. “When you guys needlecast to other sleeves – in other countries, on other planets – the data that makes you up takes time to be sent from one stack into another. During that time, skimmers, uh, I guess… go into the data streams?” He casts an uncertain glance at Yoongi, who shrugs his benediction over the technologically inept description, but Seokjin is mouthing ‘you guys’ and only notices it peripherally.

 _You guys_. It had taken him a moment to realize Jungkook had meant Meths, but of course he did. They’re the only ones who can afford to needlecast, at least on a frequent basis. He shifts, eyes falling back to the prices on the menu. How much does it cost to needlecast? Jin honestly doesn’t know, which maybe proves he is part of ‘you guys’.

Unaware, Jungkook continues. “The skimmers copy bits of data – the memories, y’know? – and, if they can, sell it.”

“You mean, like… banking information or something?” Although most Meth accounts don’t require numbers or cards anymore, so he’s not certain how useful that would be.

“Um, I guess if they’re really lucky they might stumble onto something like that, but it’s not usually their target. It’s the memories. People will pay a lot for some memories. Not for, like, information, but for the experience.”

Jin blinks. Blinks again, looking uncertainly from Yoongi’s stony face to Jungkook’s energetic one. “Are you kidding?” It seems like a joke, and he wouldn’t be surprised to find Jungkook telling it at his expense. Who the hell would want any of Jin’s memories? They’re not exactly special. Not extraordinary.

“He’s not kidding, nah. It’s what we took. Memories. The mind’s too much, all the time, to be able to tell exactly what we were getting, to aim for anything, so we just grabbed what we could.” Yoongi looks away as he says it. “We always hoped it’d be something good. Something people wanted to buy.”

“Like what?” Yeah, his strolls through the family garden were nice, but hardly something Seokjin could imagine other people paying creds for. Even some of his riskier excursions, with drugs or marvels, didn’t seem worth it.

Jerking his bony shoulders, the hacker replies, “Anything. Sex. Travel. Drugs. I had some girl pay me for every single memory I could find of Meths attending live concerts. Fuck, some people even wanted death memories.” He pauses before adding reluctantly, “Sex was probably the biggest seller. Creeps looking to get off on the kind of kinky shit you all get into.”

There’s too much to unpack in all of that for Seokjin to find any sensible words at first. “Kind of kinky – you all get – death memories!? You just go in and steal our memories?” It feels like his skin is about to burst into flames, indignation and embarrassment both excellent accelerants, and it’s easy to leave his discomfort behind in the face of that heat.

“Stole,” Yoongi corrects. “I don’t anymore.” His eyes narrow, taking in Jin’s red face and popping eyes. “What’s it matter? We copied the data, so s’not like we were depriving you poor, unfortunate fucks of your memories.”

“Memories aren’t meant to be – just sold! Those were all private!” He can’t entirely put his finger on what’s bothering him so much about what Yoongi is saying, except he’s thinking about some of his own moments, being played and replayed by some stranger. The sense of violation rankles under his skin, a burr no amount of shifting can get rid of.

Yoongi laughs, the sound bitter. “Private, yeah. You wanna know how I ended my career as a skimmer? I accidentally found a private memory of some sick asshole playing around with sleeve murder. Non-consensual sleeve murder. Wanted to go to the police, and the group I was with flat out told me no fucking way. So I said fuck that and fuck you and did it anyway. Y’know what happened?”

“…what?” Jin says it because he’s supposed to, because Yoongi wants him to, but he knows the answer. It’s etched across Yoongi’s curled, feral mouth and painted in the embers flaring through his drained eyes.

“Nothing, that’s what. Nothing to that twisted piece of shit, anyways. I wasn’t stupid, I submitted all the proof without putting my name on it, but I did it good, I did it clear. You couldn’t miss what he was doing.” As he gets angrier, Yoongi’s words, normally so easily enunciated, start to slur together, like he’s speaking through mud. “Police did shit all. Heard they gave ‘im an interview, ‘an he walked out smiling. Group I was in kicked me. Couldn’t have bleeding hearts, they said.”

“Hyung, you don’t have to –” Jungkook says, chewing his cheek, but Yoongi bulls on as though he doesn’t hear.

“They got annihilated a few months later. Wiped off the fucking grid. I wasn’t taking bets on who the hell did it. I took my shit, and I left that city real fucking quick and I left skimming, too. Ain’t nothin in a Meth mind that I wanna see no more.”

A dead quiet settles over the table. It’s the kind of silence left by a nuclear explosion, a void of oxygen and pressure and space mere milliseconds away from being filled with screams. With fire. A few tables down, a couple murmurs to each other, and across the room a much larger group breaks into raucous laughter, but the noise doesn’t touch the trio. There’s a wall between them and everyone else, formed by a truth that Jin can’t doubt, not with Yoongi’s face twisting in a grief scorched black by rage.

He doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know how to breathe life back into the air. In the political dance he was born into, Seokjin hadn’t often found himself at a loss for words, but this is about so much more than words. “I’m sorry you –”

“Don’t.” Yoongi says it without looking up from his hands.

Seokjin puts the menu down, embarrassed. Of course Yoongi doesn’t want to hear platitudes from someone like Jin. Quietly, an empty smile on his face, he tries again. “I get why you hate me, now.”

The hacker picks up a screw, throws it back on the table. “I don’t hate you,” he says finally. “But I don’t know where you stop being a Meth – if you ever do – and I hate that.”

“He’s helped us, hyung. He’s still helping us.” Jungkook almost whispers the words.

“Christ, you don’t need to keep defending him,” Yoongi snaps, and Jin doesn’t have time to wonder at the thought of Jungkook defending him – a lot, it sounds like. The mint-haired man heaves in a breath but can’t seem to soften his tone. “I ain’t convinced he’s not just saving his skin, but yeah, I know. We’re all one big, happy team, that about right, Kookie? You think Mr. Kim Seokjin might give you a new sleeve at the end of this?”

The youngest of them flinches like he’s been struck. “Hyung…”

“What about it, Seokjin? You gonna give Jungkook a new sleeve to pay for his services? To pay him for putting his neck out for you?”

“I…” Jungkook is flushing fiercely, hands twisting around each other and pushing into the table. He looks like he wants to be anywhere but here, but he also looks fine. Healthy. And, thinking about the combat upgrades built into the lean sleeve, Seokjin can’t think of any reason he’d want another one. “Is there something wrong with yours, Jungkook?”

“Nah, there’s ab-so-lutely nothing wrong with it. It’s fucking perfect.” Abruptly Yoongi shoves away from the table, gets to his feet. His neck is scarlet, and his fingers tap along it as if they’re playing an instrument. “Never mind. I’m taking a piss.”

His mutter lingers in the air long after he’s stalked away. Jungkook looks stricken.

More uncertainty. “I’m sorry, Jungkook. If – I don’t know what I’ll have at the end of this, but if you need a new sleeve, I’ll get it for you. If I can. Yoongi’s right, if your sleeve is –”

“It’s not _my_ sleeve,” Jungkook mumbles. “This sleeve is Yoongi-hyung’s.”

“What?”

“When he – after he left the city he’d been working in, he started working as a hacker here in Triptych. He still had all of his old equipment and shit, so he just used it for something else. Hyung’s good at what he does. Really good. He didn’t do the biggest jobs, didn’t want to attract attention, but he did enough to earn a lot. And he started saving up, seriously, really seriously. For this.” Jungkook gestures woodenly at the body he’s in. “He was – He’s still afraid, I guess, that someone is gonna come along and try and start shit. So he spent like six or seven years saving for a sleeve that could fight back, if it had to. This body could have. It’s really good for that.”

“But then why…” 

Does Jungkook even hear him? It’s hard to tell. “I’ve lived in the Curve all my life,” the kid whispers, and every word is stripping years away, making him seem younger still. “And I used to think I was so tough, like this was my place and no one could take that away from me, y’know? It was kinda true. I used to get in fights, sometimes, and I was _good_ at it.” He rubs at his eyes, forcing back tears that had almost spilled with those last few syllables. Jin stares, mouth dry. Maybe he should just get up and walk away, right now. Maybe he doesn’t want to hear any more of this.

He stays frozen in place. Jungkook continues. “I was good enough to beat the shit out of some drunk asshole that came into the grocery store and started messing around with the girl doing a shift with me. Easy.” His smile has no humor in it. “Next night, when I was walking home, three guys jumped me. Big. Professional. Knocked out some teeth, broke some bones. Turned out that drunk asshole was some damn Meth, getting a little taste of pavement living. Guess he didn’t like it all that much. He made sure I knew, while he stood there, watching.”

“I don’t – You don’t need to tell me this.” It’s almost a plea, and Jin really is starting to feel sick. His annoyance with both Jungkook and Taehyung lurks in the back of his head, hideously petty next to all of this.

“You should hear it,” Jungkook disagrees tonelessly. “He wanted me to apologize, you know that? Kept saying shit about civilized men apologizing to their betters. I wouldn’t. It made him so, _so_ mad. I’m lying there, bleeding and crying, and he’s crazy pissed that I won’t say sorry. Does it really mean so much to you guys?” Jin doesn’t have an answer, and maybe it’s a good thing that Jungkook doesn’t wait for one.

“I got away, eventually. Like I said, I’ve lived in the Curve all my life. I know the streets, the back alleys. And anyways, the guys he hired, I think… I dunno, they seemed to be tired of him screaming at them. They gave up pretty quick. I thought I was good.”

He shakes his head and laughs. “Stupid. I wasn’t thinking right. Went out onto one of the main streets… I just wanted to go home. Except then there’s this car screaming up the road, and it’s that guy. You know what the funny thing is?” Jungkook asks the question suddenly, eyes jerking up, and all Seokjin can do is shrug helplessly. “I think I could have got out of the way. I was just – I was so sure he was just flexing. Trying to scare me even more. I think I even started to laugh.

“Next thing I know, I’m waking up in this sleeve. Hyung had found me on the street, brought me into a hospital. I didn’t have the kind of creds you need for a replacement body, and they were considering it an accident, not a murder. You don’t get a free sleeve if it’s an accident. Real convenient for them, huh? My stack was gonna be shoved into some drawer and left there, but Yoongi… he gave them this one and here I am.”

Has his ability to breathe left him? No, Seokjin heaves in a desperate breath just to be sure, but he still can’t seem to get enough air. There’s a mesh screen laying across his lungs, made of grief and sympathy, horror and guilt, and it feels like it’s filtering out the oxygen that Jin is trying to get. It’s like his body has decided, arbitrarily and without consulting him, that he doesn’t deserve it.

He’s not sure his body is wrong.

Abruptly, Jungkook leans forward, an awkward cast to his face. He half reaches across the table, thinks better of it, pulls his hand back. “I’m not saying this to make you feel like shit. Hyung wasn’t, either, until he got – He didn’t mean to be shitty about it, either. We just – we talked about it, before, and I thought it’d be better if you knew.”

What does he say to that? It’s not really an apology, but it kind of is. And it kind of should be, except kind of not. And somehow saying _oh, it’s fine! I loved hearing about you getting run over, I’m so glad you told me!_ doesn’t quite seem appropriate. Jin appreciates the honesty – he really does, because it makes their hostility so much easier to understand, to swallow – but how is he supposed to respond? He didn’t hit Jungkook with a car. He sure as hell isn’t into murdering people for kicks, and nor was he the one who ordered Yoongi’s old group killed.

_No. You just looked the other way whenever you saw or heard about any of that stuff happening._

Working the spit around in his mouth to make sure his voice doesn’t come out as a croak, eventually Seokjin replies. “I hope it got a huge dent in it.”

“You hope… What?”

“The car that guy hit you with. I hope it got a huge dent. Some of those aren’t possible to fix, you know. Maybe he had to get a whole new car. If it was specialized, it might have cost a lot. Maybe it wasn’t even his, but his parents. He would have been in trouble, then.” Jin is prattling, he knows that, but being aware of the fact doesn’t really do much to diminish the urge to keep talking.

Jungkook looks nonplused. Slowly he says, “You’re saying me getting run over might have been worth it if it wrecked his car?”

Hands flying up, Seokjin shakes both them and his head vigorously. “Ah, no, no, I’m not saying that. I’m just –” He doesn’t know what he’s trying to say.

Across from him, the other man begins to smile. His front teeth are showing. “Would it really have wrecked it?”

“Uh. Yes. In fact, almost definitely. Those cars look great, but the exteriors get ruined so easily.” He’s literally never owned a terra-car or had anything to do with their construction or maintenance, but it seems to be the right thing to say. Jungkook’s grin becomes positively self-satisfied. 

About to say more, he falters when a shadow falls across their table. It’s Yoongi, and he slides back into his seat with an expression that dares either of them to comment on his lengthy absence. “What exteriors get ruined easily?”

If there’s anyone at this table likely to actually know about cars, it’s Yoongi. Jin wilts and can’t quite bring himself to reply.

Jungkook responds, beaming excitedly. “I told Seokjin about the car thing and he said I probably dented it really bad! It might not even have worked after that douchebag hit me!”

“Is that so?” Yoongi drawls, raising an eyebrow and flicking a glance at Jin. When Jungkook nods, all eager enthusiasm, the man rolls his shoulders. “Huh. I hadn’t thought ‘bout it, but he’s probably right.” His eyes linger on Seokjin for a moment longer, hooded with the lie they’re sharing, before he breaks the contact and smiles at Jungkook. It’s a thin demonstration of amusement, but infinitely better than how he’d looked before he left. “What’ve I been telling you, anyways? You’re thick-headed ‘nuff to break cement. Why not a car, too?”

Their laughter isn’t completely light; the past hovers over them, heavy and dark, and it’s not something they can just forget about. Yoongi seems determined to try, though, keen to ignore the searching looks Jin gives him, willing to overlook the way Jungkook leans into him, unusually touchy for a public setting.

Jin finds it harder to disregard what he’s been told. Just letting it go feels rude, and worse, it feels like repeating a mistake he’s made too many times before. He had, up to this point, assumed Yoongi was an asshole. A recluse out for himself and whatever creds he could make along the way. After all, why else wouldn’t he be officially part of Namjoon’s gang? Why would he be holding himself separate from them?

It kinda makes sense now.

The guilt churns in his stomach, sending out shockwaves that make his fingers dance across the table, and he comes to the conclusion that he can’t just let it slide without making some sort of attempt at reparations. Even if the attempt is just made out of useless, hollow words. Even if he’s apologizing for a sin that he didn’t commit.

“Yoongi, look, about what you said…” Jin begins. The hacker stiffens, and Seokjin is about to continue.

Something grabs onto his pant leg, under the table, and yanks hard enough to jerk his body.

A shriek of pure terror leaps from Seokjin, and he jumps to his feet. Too fast; he loses his balance immediately and falls backwards, his knees taken out by the chair behind him. He and it topple to the ground with a clatter that sounds just about as painful as the collapse feels. Fueled by fear, Jin rolls onto his side, hand braced on the floor and ready to push himself to his feet…

And finds himself face-to-face with a black nose and chocolate brown eyes, set in a furry countenance.

Holly barks, and her breath washes over him in a hot wave. Seokjin recoils with an exclamation of disgust. “Gah! Holly, you–!” Insults for a dog fail to come immediately to mind, at least partially blocked by the sound his heart is making as it imitates a jackhammer. Jin scrambles upright, just in time to be greeted by a swell of laughter.

He’s seen Jungkook laugh a few times now, but he’s never seen Yoongi really give in to hilarity. There’s clearly a first time for everything, because as soon as his head pops into view – and Jin has no doubt he looks more than a little frazzled – the mint-haired man’s controlled chuckle breaks into a loud exhale. He stares for a second, two – Jin puffs up, adopting an expression of stiff dignity – and then suddenly he’s laughing, almost noiseless, his slender body shaking with the force of it. Unlike Jungkook, who’s got his head thrown back as he gasps for breath, Yoongi hunches forward a little, but that can’t hide his gummy grin.

Jin’s attacker barks again and wiggles out from underneath the table, her tail wagging furiously. Out in public, Holly doesn’t speak, but her sparkling eyes and prancing body say volumes. Taking in the crazy scene of the two men and the canine whirling at their feet, the last of Jin’s shock fades.

He shakes his finger at Holly. “You’re a rotten fleabag,” he tells her. “A dirty, tail-chasing mutt.” When she starts obligingly chasing her short tail (apparently humour isn’t lost on an AI), a new storm of laughter breaks over his companions, and when Jungkook almost falls out of his chair from leaning back too far, Jin can’t resist the invitation. He joins them, sacrificing a bit of his pride to fall in with the loud cacophony that has the couple a few tables away staring at them askance. It’s breaking a rule, but Jin doesn’t care.

God, the laughter feels so good.

They get themselves under control haltingly, and both Seokjin and Jungkook have to wipe tears off their faces. His head and cheeks are aching from laughing too hard, but what kind of pain is better? Holly had leaped into Yoongi’s lap sometime during the extended and slightly hysterical moment, and she grins proudly from her spot now. She deserves to. Besides scaring the shit out of him, she’d stopped him from making yet another mistake.

“Ah, man,” Jungkook sighs, still scrubbing at his cheeks as he gets to his feet. “Hope you didn’t scare him too bad, Holly. Who’s gonna look under his bed when he gets nightmares tonight?”

“Maybe Namjoon will.” That damn impassive look is back when Seokjin whips around to glare at Yoongi, and it doesn’t change even as Jungkook claps his hand over his mouth to stifle a giggle.

It’s one thing to have Jimin making comments like that, but having someone like Yoongi jump on the wagon is enough to set pitiful butterflies winging around his gut. Did it mean he wasn’t imagining Namjoon’s looks? Or did it just mean that he was piteous enough with his own looks that everyone had noticed? Jin’s not sure which prospect is more mortifying.

Jungkook snorts, the rough sound dragging his attention to the other man. “Maybe you’ll shoot better when you’re scared,” he says. “Only one way to find out.”

The thought of holding a gun again makes Seokjin wish Holly _had_ been some kind of cafeteria gremlin intent on gnawing his leg off. His dread must show, because Jungkook says more gently, “You’ll be better. Look, you already improved from yesterday, and the day before. Hyung, we’re off. We’ll see you later.”

That to Yoongi, who waves his hand. “Yeah, good. Maybe I’ll actually get some work done.”

Seokjin hurries after Jungkook, the man’s quick stride showing that he’s pulled his mentor coat back on. “I don’t think I’m going to be any better,” he sighs.

“Not with that attitude, you won’t. Who missed positivity classes, now?”

Will that reference ever stop making him smile? Maybe some day, but not today. Nonetheless, Jin shakes his head, hesitates. He doesn’t want to sound like (or be) a let-down, but… “It just sucks when I don’t even know what the problem is.”

“Oh, I know the problem,” Jungkook objects vaguely, his eyes focused on the rows they’re passing, looking for an empty one. “Namjoon-hyung told me when we switched. I just thought I’d have helped you get rid of it by now.”

His fingers curling, caught between surprise and timid interest, Jin asks, “Yeah? So, go on. What’s my problem?”

Jungkook shrugs, mind still somewhere else. “It was obvious, once hyung mentioned it.” Refocusing just a little, he glances at Jin. It’s hard to read his expression. “You can’t hit anything worth shit, because you don’t want to.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A totally new chapter! I'm too dumb to remember if some of the prior chapters were new or not, but I /know/ this one is, so... *celebrates* 
> 
> Hope you all enjoy! And thank you to the couple of peeps who've left comments, I really appreciate it!

Practically prancing in front of the mirror, Seokjin looks about as vain as Jungkook’s imagined any Meth would, staring at their reflection. Or at least, he would look vain, if he didn’t keep pulling ridiculous faces, scrunching up his eyes and cheeks or sticking out his tongue. He even experiments with his neck, jerking and then dipping his chin until it’s almost touching the neck chain that’s anchoring his face disguise, giving himself a double chin. His outrageous investigation is so enthusiastic it’s catching… but then again, so much about the Meth’s over the top exuberance is.

Jungkook realizes he’s smiling and doesn’t bother to quench the expression as he leaves the man to a few more seconds of admiration. When he saunters into the living room and flings himself onto the couch next to Yoongi, the other man arches an eyebrow. “He hasn’t gotten tired of checking himself out yet? Figures.”

“He said he’ll be out in a sec. ‘Sides, I’d be doing that if you gave me a mask, too. It looks so cool! I can’t believe you can make him look like that.”

Yoongi’s shoulders press back into the lumpy couch, a momentary almost-stretch of embarrassment and satisfaction both. “It wasn’t that hard.” Not that hard. Only a month and a half of work, Yoongi hunched over his computer desk or the physical devices whenever he’s not doing something else, tinkering with them long into the night after Jungkook passed out on his bed. Yeah, Jungkook has helped a little bit with the graphic design part, making sure it really looks _real,_ but that’s nothing to the time his boyfriend’s put in.

Not that Yoongi will hear it, if Jungkook tries to tell him that with any earnestness. Instead, he settles for bumping their shoulders together. “Still looks awesome. I can’t even tell it’s not real. Only a genius could make something like that.”

The other man’s gummy smile breaks out, and it makes Jungkook lean against him more, affection wringing his heart. “I am a genius, yeah,” Yoongi agrees, and this time he actually stretches, the movement all lazy pride. And never mind that the gesture lets him wrap one arm around Jungkook’s shoulder and pull him closer.

Snorting at that, about to reply, Jungkook is interrupted as Seokjin comes barrelling into the room. Of course, he doesn’t look like Seokjin. Slightly darker skin, much thinner lips, a straight nose, long, straight black hair, including a neat goatee. He looks at least a decade older, too. Somehow the beaming grin he’s currently wearing still seems like his, though. Maybe it’s just because Jungkook knows it’s him.

“This is amazing!” the man exclaims, his hands (matching the rest of his disguise) waving around as if to demonstrate. Since he’s in a t-shirt, the tight silver bands that the hand and lower arm holographs are being produced by are visible at his elbows. “No matter what I do, what expression I make, the face stays the same!”

There’s no guile in his admiration, no flattery, and Jungkook can feel Yoongi’s uncertain discomfort in the sudden tension of the arm slung around his body. A moment later, and the hacker nonchalantly pulls back his arm, sets both hands in his lap, instead. He still doesn’t like being affectionate in front of the Meth. It makes Jungkook’s mouth pull down, though he knows it’s not fair for him to expect Yoongi to just – get over it. It’s just – Jungkook wants, more than anything, for the other man to feel safe with him. To know that as long as Jungkook is by his side, he’s going to be protected, that he can be and do and act however he wants, and not have to worry about it. That they’re not there yet makes Jungkook feel like a failure.

At least Yoongi’s making a bit of progress, though. “We still need to test it out more,” the small man mutters, where he assuredly would have made some snide insult about Seokjin’s two faces, before.

“Yeah, but I think it’s gonna work perfectly! You did a great job!” A grin shows a flash of white teeth, and again the hacker shifts, a barely perceptible flush spreading across his face. Not for the first time, Jungkook reflects that if any Meth could be relentlessly optimistic enough to convince Yoongi that there are one or two exceptions to the “Meths suck” rule, it would be Seokjin.

He doesn’t count Taehyung. The man’s irresistible friendliness would make it feel like cheating.

Gaze cutting over to Jungkook and ostensibly ignoring Seokjin, Yoongi asks, “Can you try seeing through the mask? See if I programmed it right?”

With a hum of agreement, Jungkook accesses his ONI, shuffles around the graphic interface for a few moments before he finds the app Yoongi had downloaded on all of their devices. He changes the settings, and just like that, Seokjin’s fake face flicks off. Same with the rest of the disguise. The only thing it leaves is the familiar smile, which hasn’t faded despite Yoongi’s lack of a reply.

“Works perfect, hyung.” _His ugly mug is right there,_ Jungkook might have said, except that the words feel too mean, and besides… even Yoongi couldn’t honestly call Seokjin ugly. Not by a long-shot.

Yoongi nods, sharp and satisfied. “Good. I can still see the fake, so it’s working fine. We’ll have to run it through a security screen, but I’m pretty sure they won’t trigger any alarms.” It’s one of the reasons Yoongi had to make them basically from scratch; any of those currently on the market wouldn’t make it through Meth security. 

Holding out his arms and admiring them – if Jungkook hadn’t turned on his “see through” function, the illusion would have cut off at around Seokjin’s elbows, leaving his normal skin tone above that – Seokjin doesn’t seem to be paying all that much attention. Eventually the Meth muses, “I was wondering, though… What happens if I have to take my clothes off?”

Yoongi’s nose crinkles. “You plan on scratching the prehistoric stack with a mask on?”

Jungkook chokes, laughter and embarrassment colliding on their way from his throat and producing a strangled sound. Seokjin doesn’t get it, to judge by his furrowed brows and slight head shake. That makes it even _funnier,_ which is enough to get him over his own embarrassment and goad him into suggesting, “Maybe he wants to work on his needlecasting aim.”

The man next to him chuckles, some of his tension leaving him. “Is that it? You worried ‘bout scattering your stardust wrong?”

Give it to the Meth: he might be so sheltered it’s a little sad, but he’s not stupid. By now the broad shouldered man has picked up on what they’re saying, and where Jungkook had choked, Seokjin seems to have stopped breathing altogether. His face shows just a bit of blotchy red, lips moving soundlessly as he jerks his blinking eyes away and casts them around the room, like he’s looking for a manager to call over and complain to. Jungkook figures it’s pretty even odds between him dropping dead of mortification or booking it from the room. Is that just him, or are all Meths so touchy about this stuff? (Wondered a not-at-all hypocritical and nearly overheating from embarrassment Jungkook).

After a moment, though, Seokjin actually gets a hold of himself, draws up. The way his chest swells, chin lifting imperiously, is a pretty obvious callback to his background. Against his inclination Jungkook can feel himself stiffening in response to that arrogant posture. Yoongi is, too. He’s abruptly regretting making the joking comment – he should have remembered who they were talking to – and the regret annoys him. It’s not that he _wants_ to get into a fight with Seokjin, but with a haughty expression like that after some harmless teasing, how are they supposed to react?

Abruptly the Meth deflates. It doesn’t happen instantly – more like a painful wheeze of air out of a poked hole – but nonetheless, his indignant stance slowly slumps. The irritation doesn’t quite leave his expression, yet when Seokjin speaks, his voice is deliberately neutral. “I just wanted to know in case I spilled something on my clothes, or something to that effect.”

He’s making an effort to be polite. Jungkook doesn’t really want to admit that, but ever since their conversation at the shooting range, it’s been obvious how hard Seokjin is trying. It’s just… they hadn’t told him their history so that he’d go into a guilt and pity spiral and practically roll over whenever they got on his case, his previous fiery indignation smothered. Hell, if Jungkook had known that talking about their past would make the Meth all but shut off whenever they razzed him, he wouldn’t have suggested it to Yoongi in the first place.

With a glance at his partner, he jumps in, hoping Yoongi will take the hint and move on. “It’s not a bad question,” he says with forced nonchalance.

“Nah, it isn’t,” Yoongi replies, and Jungkook has just enough time to be relieved before the hacker adds, “Don’t spill anything on yourself, ‘cause I sure as hell ain’t making a cock ring projector to cover for you ripping your clothes off.”

Seokjin stiffens and colours all over again, and Jungkook has to stifle the urge to groan or cover his face. He _is_ about to jab Yoongi with a righteous elbow – he loves him, but sometimes he’s so impossible! – when the other man snorts. “Aish, will you relax? It’s a joke. The free kind. Even Meths have to have at least a few of those, yeah?”

Staring at him, eyes narrowing slightly, Seokjin repeats, “The free kind?”

“Yeah. As in, not at your expense. Good for a group laugh. Maybe a smartass response. That kind.” The Meth’s expression doesn’t immediately thaw, and Yoongi huffs in frustration, and it suddenly occurs to Jungkook that this – this blunt, not patently friendly attempt – is his idiot boyfriend’s best go at making Seokjin finally relax. Jungkook has been trying to do that for the last three weeks, running intervention every time things get tense, redirecting the conversation to lighter topics, and lamenting to a largely (he thought) disinterested Yoongi that they’d turned Seokjin into a personality-frag disaster. And here Yoongi is, acting like just point blank _telling_ him they’re not trying to bully him is going to be enough to–

“It’s too big, right?” Seokjin’s voice is really shrill and quick, actually a bit hard to understand, and if he’d been red before, that’s nothing compared to the brilliant shade all over his face now. Nonetheless, the tight hunch of his shoulders has loosened, and he seems to be taking a shot at smiling, if that weird mouth contortion is a hint.

They stare at him blankly. “What?” Jungkook asks, honestly just relieved the Meth isn’t storming out of the room or showing his belly like Holly trying to get a treat.

If anything, his tone flings even higher, and he utters a strangled sort of giggle before replying. “My…” And he gestures at his crotch. “Too big to make a ring for, right? That’s really why you won’t make–”

It’s either the looks on their faces or his own embarrassment, but Seokjin doesn’t finish the sentence. His last few compressed words escape human comprehension as they rush into a mangled squeak, and then the Meth is laughing. If you could call the rabid-mouse sound he’s making laughing. It must be, though, because his eyes are creased, mouth wide open and showing off his top teeth as he wheezes, his hands clapping in spastic glee.

It’s not the stupid joke that does it. It’s the nonplused expression Yoongi’s wearing. Jungkook barks a laugh, plans to stop there and then somehow can’t. Riotous and helpless, his giggles drag Yoongi into the mix; though the older man is quieter, not quite comfortable enough to break out into his hoarse cackle, he’s still chuckling, and Seokjin and Jungkook’s noise is more than loud enough to make up for it. The Meth’s energy is just so contagious, and it’s actually – fun, as fun as it always is to let loose and laugh at something stupid. More fun, maybe, because this is the first time Seokjin’s full out laughed in their presence since On Target.

Their hyena hilarity attracts attention, and it isn’t long before everyone’s been let in on the joke. Each retelling – first to a curious Jimin, then to Namjoon (Seokjin mysteriously absents himself for that one) and then later to Tae, when the Meth shows up after supper – brings about a fresh wave of amusement and scoffing and increasingly dirty comments. Seokjin seems equally shocked and delighted at more than a few of them, especially when they come from Namjoon, and Taehyung looks like he’s getting high on everyone’s happiness.

For Jungkook’s part, when they all crash together in the living room and begin to watch some TV program, he’s more interested in observing the rest of them than he is in paying attention to the alien drama on the screen. No one’s bothered to turn lights on, and this late, everyone is only partially illuminated by the light of the television. He and Yoongi have claimed the couch again, while Tae and Jimin are crammed together on the sole armchair. That leaves the floor for Namjoon and Seokjin, and they’ve made themselves at home on a pile of scavenged blankets, their backs pressed into the couch and shoulders not quite touching – except for when they do. The sight has a baffled sort of curiosity at the back of Jungkook’s mind, but it’s not a bad feeling.

Everyone looks comfortable. Maybe more than comfortable. They don’t have much time or energy for this sort of thing, but that makes it even more enjoyable to just collapse and focus on something that isn’t the possibility of impending annihilation. Eyes roaming over the gathered men, Jungkook is suddenly struck by a thought that makes him shift uneasily. He’s – happy. Not just happy. Grateful. Content. Whole, somehow. And if the Meths were cut out of this picture, he wouldn’t be.

Noticing his squirming, Yoongi lifts his arm. It’s a surprising invitation, given the Meth presence, but a welcome one. Jungkook snuggles into his side, the hacker pulling him closer and nuzzling at his neck. The press of his lips against Jungkook’s skin – Yoongi’s brave when it isn’t likely anyone will notice – is a slow kiss designed to tease, and then it breaks off and Yoongi turns back to the TV. It sets a sharp and fizzy warmth in Jungkook’s stomach, an almost-ache, and he settles more firmly against the other man.

Things might change in the future. The Meths – well, he’s beyond the point of thinking the Meths will betray them – but they might still go back to where they came from. Leave this poor apartment and return to eternity, careless of the hole it would leave. Still… For now, because they might _not_ , Jungkook’s going to hold on to this happiness and pretend that things are exactly as they’re supposed to be. 

\---

“And if you could just stay by the entrances and make sure everyone is behaving themselves – maybe send one or two people through the event, too…” The organizer – was her name Jamie? – is explaining things to all of them, though as they trail after the stocky woman, Jungkook’s pretty sure it’s just Jimin and Namjoon that’re paying any attention. Seokjin’s head is set on a swivel stick, whipping around to catch sight of everything, and Taehyung isn’t any better, though his gaping consideration of everything is happening at a slower pace. Yoongi isn’t looking around, but the bored expression on his face suggests he’s not listening, either. As for Jungkook, this is all been-there, done-that; he doesn’t need to be told how to work security.

A handful of kids tumble by, shrieking and waving their prizes over their heads like war trophies, and their parents hurry after them a moment later, maybe a bit harried but smiling all the same. Around them, the noise is cacophonous and joyful, everything a festival should be. The group putting it together managed to rent a few rides, just kiddie things like spinning spaceships, a small, rattling rollercoaster, zero-grav spheres and a few VR booths, but they’re enough to have the children head over heels with excitement. There are tons of game and activity stalls shoved into Reflection Park, but as crowded as it is, it’s the only open space big enough in the Curve to host something like this. Despite the press, all the activities are doing a brisk business to judge by the lines, which isn’t a surprise, given the extremely low ticket prices. Here and there are performers, either set up on little stages or strolling through the temporary carnival and entertaining whoever will watch them.

It comes to Jungkook that he probably looks like just as much of a tourist as the Meths do, with his mouth open like it is, and he hastily shuts it. Maybe they’ll have time to try some of the games after they’re done working. The thought makes him shift with restless excitement.

“This is where we’re running things,” their tour guide is finishing as they come up to a building placed near the back of the grounds. Jungkook knows that when there isn’t a carnival outside its doors, it’s a community center, pretty inaccurately called Reflection Center. He spent plenty of time in and around the facility when he was a kid and teenager, sometimes doing the children friendly events and sometimes getting in trouble for interrupting them. It’s a fond place for him, and automatically he looks at Yoongi, wondering what the other man thinks of the peeling paint and neat but bland flowerbeds, the chipped and multi-coloured sign over the door that says, with utter disregard for cringe factor, Let This Curve be a Brilliant Rainbow! The hacker has definitely noticed the sign, but Jungkook can’t tell if the slight pull at his lips is from amusement or scorn.

Unaware of his history with the place, Jamie is continuing. “If there are any problems, you can report here. You can also take your breaks and eat inside. I think Adita told you your food is provided for?” Jimin nods, and she runs a hand through her frazzled hair in thought. “I think that’s everything. Honestly, we don’t expect – we’re really hoping nothing happens, but especially as it gets later, and with everything that’s happening in the community… well, we want to keep everyone safe.”

Namjoon’s smile is professional and understanding both. “Of course. I doubt anyone will cause trouble, but we’ll be ready. Leave it to us.” He’s got one of the masks on – looks like a pasty white ginger – but that calm reassurance is present no matter what he looks like. The organizer immediately seems at least ten percent less stressed.

“Thank you. If there are any issues or you have questions, you all have my number – I’ll be here all day. The morning security crew will be off in about ten minutes. Besides that…” She shrugs, spreads her hands a little like she’s miming embracing all of them. “Thank you so much for agreeing to do this.”

“Any time.” That from Jimin, sans a mask, grinning in his whole-body way, and then she leaves them.

Almost immediately, Namjoon’s smile fades, his expression turning serious. Jungkook catches himself missing the days when the man would goof off with them and chides the thought from his head. It’s not that their leader _never_ plays around anymore, and besides, this is some Serious Business. It’s the perfect opportunity to test the masks in public – one on Namjoon, one on Jungkook, and the last on Seokjin. Neither Yoongi, Tae nor Jimin are wearing masks. There’s no need for them to. Yoongi doesn’t get out much, and Jimin has always pretended to be an employer of the gang, not a member. He has no direct ties to Namjoon or Jungkook, always having operated separately from them, and pretends he’s hiring from out of city.

As for Tae, there’s something incongruously funny about seeing the Meth in a ratty t-shirt he borrowed from Jungkook, only partially hidden by the black and white security jackets they’ve all been given. In an outfit like that, it’s extremely unlikely anyone here will recognize him. Who would expect the son of the most powerful Meth in Triptych to be working as a security guard at some Curve event? No one, that’s who. 

This is going to be something of a trial by fire for the Meths, to see how they do in a public location with limited supervision and the possibility of a fight on their hands. Jungkook doesn’t – quite – hope they actually get in a brawl, but it would probably be good for them. Both of them have been progressing in the hand-to-hand combat Jimin and Jungkook have been showing them, but there’s nothing like a real fight to get rid of nerves and build confidence. (And no, he’s definitely not smirking at the thought of either of them getting squarely punched in the nose, probably for the first time in their life.)

(Although it’s definitely not Tae’s first time, given what he’s mentioned about his dad while he and Jungkook lounged off to the side during training sessions, watching Jimin and Seokjin go at it. His blank face would have made it seem like he was lying, except for the way he flinches whenever Jungkook swats at him unexpectedly, or how much he obviously hates hurting any of them. The thought sours Jungkook’s amusement.)

Anyways… As Jungkook looks around the festival, at the multitude of people milling around having a good time, some of whom he recognizes, he realizes there’s another reason this is important. The Curve hasn’t had a big event like this in years. If anyone comes along and tries to ruin it, they’re going to deserve getting thrown out on their asses.

Namjoon draws his attention. “We’ll split into teams. Jimin, you’ll be with Taehyung. Take the west entrance. I’ll go with Yoongi, we’ll be at the east one. That leaves Jungkook and Seokjin; you two can be the ones walking around to start.” It’s obvious he’s partnering the Meths with the best fighters, which makes Jungkook’s heart swell a bit, proud Namjoon is trusting him to keep an eye on the least experienced of them. “Let’s keep in touch. In,” he checks his interface watch, “three hours, we’ll rotate assignments, and we’ll switch partners so Yoongi can see more than just the one mask in action.”

He looks so composed, so thoroughly untouched by the chaotic thrill surrounding them. When he’d told them what he was – what he had been – months ago, Jungkook hadn’t really wanted to believe it, but it’s impossible to deny. During their infiltration of Junseo’s place, while Jungkook had been beside himself with fear and anxiety, struggling to swim let alone think much, Namjoon had been almost uncannily calm. Even when he’d been shot, when he’d informed Jungkook that he had fallen off the roof and was going to have to throw himself into the water and would probably drown to avoid being captured… that calm had been unshaken. No one _normal_ could manage that.

It’s a reassuring certainty, but also… not. Thinking about what the police captain had been able to do with just one gun makes Jungkook kind of nervous to discover what Namjoon could do, if pressed. No matter that Namjoon keeps insisting he and Hoseok are different.

“Just remember, we’re here to test out our preparedness, first and foremost. If people start things, by all means intervene, but if it’s one of Rafa’s gang members, we’re going to have to be careful. Better that they ruin this event than we tip them off to who we are, or make them want to investigate.” There’s no give on the man’s face, pale though it is, and while Yoongi huffs an agreement, the rest of them just shuffle uncertainly.

“They did hire us to protect them, though…” Seokjin points out, the only one willing to say anything, and Jungkook is a little jealous of that confidence. With Namjoon looking so firm, it hadn’t even occurred to him to argue.

Barely visible eyebrows pulling together, Namjoon stares at the Meth for a long moment, and Jungkook knows him well enough to think there’s more guilt than annoyance in that tense expression. Just when Seokjin starts shifting, Namjoon replies lowly. “We will be protecting them. This gang warfare is tearing the Curve apart. No one feels safe anymore. The faster we figure this shit out, the faster things go back to normal. That’s how we protect them. This – this is nothing. Nothing important.”

Seokjin looks away uncomfortably, but Jungkook notices Taehyung is staring very intently at Namjoon. _What is he seeing?_ It’s impossible to tell based on that impossibly smooth face. After an awkward moment Namjoon sighs, drags his fingers through his red hair – the holograph adapts seamlessly to the motion – and it suddenly breaks the controlled façade, shows a hint of the man’s strain. “I just want us to be safe, okay? If nothing happens – great. If something does happen… just use your heads.” And with a small gesture summoning Yoongi, he trails away, leaving Jungkook looking after the two and feeling unaccountably sad.

Jimin clears the air with his soft voice. “We should probably get going, Taehyung. See you two later?” he asks Jungkook and Seokjin. They both nod, and, after brushing Seokjin’s shoulder and smiling at them both, Taehyung follows the small man.

“Okay!” Seokjin says brightly, his eyes beginning to skip around with a glee that’s impossible to miss. “Where should we start? And could we stop at one or two of those booth things?”

With a snort, Jungkook banishes the prickly discomfort and resigns himself to the dual jobs of watching out for any disruptive presences and keeping the Meth from running off. It’s a real toss up for which one is going to be harder.

\---

“Is he using some kind of holographic device?” Jin asks as the self-proclaimed Magic Man makes yet another card disappear and then reappear behind a delighted teenager’s ear, only a short distance from their post. It’s his seventh or eighth question in the last hour, but with Jimin, he doesn’t feel like he’s being stupid, having to ask. Or at least, not really stupid.

Shaking his head with patient amusement, Jimin doesn’t let him down. “No. Street artists don’t have enough money for that. Or at least, none that would get hired here have enough. It’s real.”

“Then how’s he doing it!?”

A shrug. “If I knew, maybe I’d try being a magician instead of whatever we are. Some kind of hand-eye trick, I guess.”

Jin’s supposed to be scanning for anything off in the bunches of people strolling through the entrance, as well as keeping tabs on the crowds inside, but frankly, he probably isn’t the best person to be doing this job. _Everything_ is off to him. He’s never attended anything so pedestrian as a carnival before, and even now, after hours of walking with Jungkook and doing a couple more hours of standing around at the entrance with Jimin, there’s still something intriguing about the painted cut-outs, the faded tents, the vendors brazenly selling food and other trinkets.

(Early on he’d almost punched/flailed at the first man to try pulling him to look at a series of cheap little figurines, convinced that he was what his partner had meant when he mentioned watching out for aggressive people. Only some quick talking from a _very_ embarrassed and appalled Jungkook had smoothed that over.)

But, overly assertive and slightly rude sellers aside, the people seem to be having a wonderful time, and that in itself is miraculous to Jin.

He’s seen misery in the Curve – plenty of it. To avoid going stir-crazy, Jin had begged for the chance to go out of the apartment at least once every few days, and after some hesitation, Namjoon had agreed. Hidden under a hat and a mask, he’s gone to the grocery store with Jimin several times now, taken walks through the backstreets with either just Namjoon or with everyone, had Jungkook take him on a trip to the younger man’s favourite all night convenience store. Placed right in the center of things, it’s impossible to miss the poverty, to skim it to the peripherals of his awareness like he had before.

He knows from his companions that rent is too high, wages too low, and prospects not looking to get better any time soon. Hell, before Tae had shown up and started shelling out creds, he’d known in a vague way that Namjoon and Jimin were sweating over being able to afford rent and food for that month, especially since their fridge had recently broken and they’d had to get another one – not to mention the payment for Namjoon’s replacement sleeve. Those worries, coupled with the constant threats of violence from Rafa’s gang and others, along with a strained police presence, badly upkept roads and buildings, and a pretty horrible atmosphere, were all proof that the neighbourhood wasn’t a dream zone.

Yet almost everyone he sees today look happy. The kids are totally oblivious to everything except the next treat stand, teens group together in loud, rowdy crowds, young couples pass by in heart-eyed bliss, and there are even some old people strolling around, looking things over with fond smiles.

He observes an elderly couple holding hands as they watch the magician. They almost seem too old, grotesquely so, although that’s nothing new. Seeing people throughout the Curve who’re actually _old_ has been a somewhat unpleasant shock to Jin’s aesthetics. That isn’t at all fair, but Jin can’t help but be repulsed even as he’s charmed by their obvious tenderness and enjoyment. It’s a strange feeling, just like all of the conflicted emotions this carnival experience is summoning in him.

A voice that’s more like Namjoon’s than Seokjin’s whispers ironically, _What, did you expect the poor to be animals? Too dumb with suffering to have fun? Too brutish to enjoy anything? Did you think the elderly_ _would just stay inside all day, waiting to die? Can you only sympathize with people when they’re showing their pain?_

Shaking his head as if that could dislodge the thoughts, Seokjin distracts himself with another question. “How did you find this job for us, anyways?"

Gracefully avoiding a toddler hellbent on stumbling into his leg and cutely, even a bit abashedly waving away the parent's profuse apologies, Jimin's eyes don't leave the young child, probably making sure she doesn't faceplant before her father catches up. "I knew Adita before this, worked jobs for her before. When she reached out, it seemed like a perfect opportunity to get you guys prepped, plus test the masks... and besides, she needed someone who would work for cheap. She's only got so much funding for this, y'know? And I thought we should help."

"We're hardly getting paid?" Jin questions in dismay. He's hardly ever thought about reaping the fruits of his labour - somehow the creds just seemed to materialize, before - but suddenly it seems an injustice to be slogging his way between these booths, under the smog-smeared but still hot sun, in an ill-fitting jacket, prepared to sacrifice limb if not life, and all for mere pennies!

His eyes scrunching in a bemused expression, Jimin points out, "You're not getting paid anything. We're charging you rent and food, remember? That's pretty much eating through your share."

"Then how are any of you making creds!?"

"Well, we're paying you less." His voice suggests that should be obvious. "You're a rookie. You get starting wage."

"What union do I complain to?" is his joking response, and only a little too late he realizes that's probably not an entirely appropriate joke for him to make. Meths have been systemically undermining the unions for centuries now, after all, until their voices mean essentially nothing on Earth.

But Jimin just giggles, not looking to point out insensitivity, like Namjoon, or get offended, like the other two. "I can't give you their contact info, sorry. My interface seems to have accidentally deleted it all."

He relaxes, grateful to have the diplomatic man as his partner. Gaze skipping to a loud group passing through the wooden, technologically vacant entryway, only to dismiss them as a non-issue, Jin continues his idle conversation. "Namjoon told me you've been at this for a long time now? What _did_ you do before, since you clearly weren’t a magician?" He hasn't had a chance to ask Jimin that yet.

And it seems to be a mistake. His companion doesn't reply at first, hand pushing through his bangs as he strays a bit away from their post just a few meters from the entrance, investigating something on the ground. It turns out to be a can, and Jimin kicks it in a desultory way before returning to Seokjin. Before the Meth has a chance to say something else - and he doesn't know if he should apologize for prying - Jimin shrugs. "I hadn't done much before joining Namjoon. Was like halfway through college, but I dropped out. I'm not from here, originally, and just moved to... get away."

Maybe because Jimin already volunteered so much information, or maybe because he's just a prying bastard, Jin asks tentatively, "To get away from...?"

"What does anyone want to get away from?" The bitter smile looks odd, too hard on his soft lips. "Their parents, their past, themselves..." His shoulders are very small when he shrugs them. "I was in and out of a hospital a lot, before." Jin doesn't have the heart - or the stupidity - to ask why. "I met someone there who really helped me, and when I got out after him... I dunno, I realized I needed to change some things, so I moved to Triptych. Couldn't afford anywhere but the Curve. And I met Yoongi when I was working as a hiring consultant. He introduced me to Namjoon, I kinda fell in with them, Jungkook was next, and then... Here we are. They're stuck with me."

"They're really lucky. Beyond lucky. I'm pretty sure that if they didn't have you, they'd fall apart."

Jimin laughs in a way that suggests he's just brushing it off, so Jin insists. "I'm serious! Look at all you're doing, Jimin. I know I'm just a Meth, but I'm used to looking at how things are being run, at finding the person who's doing the most in a room. That person is you."

"That person is Namjoon," the small man objects softly.

"Namjoon keeps you all together, directed, focused, whatever. That doesn't mean he's juggling the most." When Jimin goes to object again, Seokjin rides over him. "And anyways, it's not a competition. You're all working together, and the point is, they wouldn't be doing as well if you weren't here." Still that soft reluctance, that refusal to believe he's doing enough.

Frowning, Jin wishes Taehyung were here. He has a way of making people feel better about themselves. Jin is good at lifting the mood, but he's not as good at really changing people's thoughts, especially in one conversation. He's the kind of individual that needs to dig at people, push and push and push. It's never an instantaneous conviction, like Taehyung can produce. Or maybe he's just being jealous again.

"Whatever!" Jin abruptly declares. "I'm glad you're here, and Tae is too, and you should listen to what I'm saying! I'm your elder!"

With a roll of his eyes, Jimin conveys how much seniority means to him, but at any rate the atmosphere is a little lightened, which is about all Jin can hope for at the moment. Apparently glad to move the conversation on, the shorter man murmurs, "I've been wondering... I know you're older than Tae, but how much older?"

Not a polite question, really, and Jin doesn't particularly want to think about his age. "Why? How old do you think Tae is?" he shoots back.

"You know it's impossible to tell with you Meths." It's funny. Everyone says that, but in some ways, it isn't true. He could tell an older Meth from a middle aged or young one with ease. There's this - calcifying - that no amount of anti-age injections or sleeve swapping can get rid of. It's already taken over his parents. Some of his older siblings, too. It's just a fact of life, something you don't really acknowledge or talk about. Like grey hairs but in the eyes.

"But if you had to guess?" Jin persists, and Jimin pouts at him, lashes fanning against his cheeks when he squints.

"I dunno. He's... he seems young. Really young."

Eyes that see everything, a boxy grin, a heart that longs to alleviate all of the hurt he’s had put on him, a twist of his mouth whenever his father is mentioned... does Taehyung seem young? Jin's known him for so long, the definition is somehow too simple, too flat. "What makes you think he's young?"

"Is this twenty questions?" At Jin's confused look, Jimin sighs. "Just look at what he did when he found out where you were. Who just walks up to the door of a bunch of kidnappers and knocks? No info, no backup, no plan B. That seems pretty childish to me. Or at least really naive."

Jin stares for a moment, his lips twitching. A moment later and he can't help it: he bursts into a raucous laugh. The amusement - and the misunderstanding - is too much, and he's still laughing several seconds later when Jimin takes a swipe at his shoulder, hard enough to actually sting. "Come on!" Jimin whines as Jin yelps and stops his guffaws with a reproachful look. "What are you laughing at?"

Heaving in a deep breath to keep the snickers firmly buried in his belly, Jin wipes at his eyes. "It's just... did you guys really think Tae was by himself? That he was that stupid? He's going to be so insulted when I tell him!"

Stopping dead, Jimin demands, "What do you mean?"

"Those people he hired to find you? They were in contact with him the whole time he was at the apartment, on a hidden channel. If he'd wanted to, he could have called them over to protect him. It's not like you guys could have jammed his ONI or anything, not with the tech he has. Or, I guess Holly could maybe have managed it, but he didn't know about her, so-"

"But Jungkook said he was scared! That he thought we were going to turn him over to Junseo!"

"Of course he was scared!" Jin snorts even as he shakes his head. "He's never dealt with genuinely hostile people before, and Yoongi was even waving a gun in my face! And he really did think you were going to turn him over, but that didn't mean he should call his bodyguards right away. For one, the emotions – mine, Namjoon’s, everyone’s – weren’t as aggressive as he’d expected. For another… even if they were, he wanted to figure out a way to get us separated from all of you, so when the guards came in it was less likely we'd get shot. So, he acted helpless."

The other man is starting to look like an albino, he's gone so white. The whole misunderstanding is hilarious to Jin, but it suddenly occurs to him that Jimin is probably thinking about what would have happened if Namjoon hadn't decided to trust Taehyung. What kind of scene Jimin would have walked in on, if Taehyung had called on his people instead of waiting to see how things played out. And once again, Jin's kicking himself.

Is there ever going to be a time when he doesn't misjudge what impact his words will have on these people? Why was it so, so easy when he was with other Meths, and it's always so, so hard now? Is he ever going to actually understand them?

Forcing the mirth to remain in his voice for all that the realization makes him want to apologize, Jin waves an airy hand. "Anyways, it all worked out. Once things smoothed over, he dismissed the people he hired, and he hasn't had them since. He trusts you guys."

Jimin's eyes are hooded, reminiscent of how he'd looked back when Seokjin was still trying to get to know him. Blaming himself for not realizing how much danger his friends had been in, maybe? Re-evaluating how much he can trust Taehyung, maybe? Or Jin, maybe? None of those possibilities are palatable, so the Meth reaches out, gives the back of Jimin’s head a not-quite gentle smack. Only fair, given how hard he’d been hit. “Yah, get out of your head,” he barks sharply, and has the two-pointed pleasure of seeing the other man jump at the loud command while rubbing gingerly at his head.

Certain that he has Jimin’s full attention now, Jin reiterates, “It’s in the past. We’re together now, seriously, and there’s no point in worrying about it. So don’t, okay?”

Hand still ruffling his hair, eventually Jimin smiles, lets out a little amused huff. “That easy, huh?” When Jin raises his hand threateningly (and God knows Jimin is the only one he’d dare try this on, for fear of losing his hand altogether), the small man laughs outright, backs away. “Okay, okay. Not worrying about it, I swear.”

“Good,” Jin replies smugly. “And just so you know, I demand a pay increase for being an amazing employee.”

He expects that to get another giggle – Jimin is by far the most receptive to his jokes – but his companion doesn’t respond. Actually, he’s not even looking at him, his eyes narrowed and fixed over his shoulder. The intensity of that gaze demands to be followed and Jin swivels, darting looks here and there, trying to see what caught Jimin’s attention. The boy with the weird goggles? Those two old ladies with the sinister black hats? The –

His eyes land on a group of people shoving through the entrance, ignoring the gatekeeper’s meek attempts to get them to stop.

His eyes land on the man at the front of the group, so short and compact it’s as if gravity took a personal interest in him as he grew. 

Gravity is doing something strange to Jin's stomach, too. Ripping it down and down and down until it’s settled not quite comfortably at his toes. Because suddenly, unsteadily, Jin realizes he recognizes that face. A round face, saved from the crime of softness by a scruff of patchy brown beard and by a ruddy complexion. A face that suddenly seems superimposed over Jin's sight, taking up so much space that it's hard to see anything else. Hard to remember anything else, too.

When Jin shifts, just a little, it feels like he's falling sideways into something, and it's only a tight clasp on Jimin's shoulder that saves him from reeling into - he doesn't know what. Somewhere he doesn't want to go. The blackness beneath a memory, maybe.

"That's -" he manages to gasp, and the words slide around in the gritty feeling of dirt or something bloodier in his mouth.

"Yeah," says Jimin, who's swiveled just a little to accommodate Jin's desperate grasp on his shoulder, supporting the weight with a hand at the Meth's elbow. "That's him."

Of course Jimin would know. Would recognize right away. He's been doing all of the surveillance on Rafa's gang, he's the one who's collected an impressive record on all of the members and their preferred hangouts and habits and crimes.

Crimes like murdering Jin.

 _So this is the infamous David_ , Jin thinks to himself. _I got killed by a garden gnome_.

The thought is teetering perilously close to hysteria - or maybe it's actually flung beyond hysteria, maybe it's inhabiting a world somewhere beyond the chaotic and frantic world of emotion in Jin's chest. He’s seen David’s face a few times since the sleeve death. They’ve all gone over Jimin’s information, stared at the holographics in terse silence, committing to memory the features of their enemies. But those images – static, lifeless – hadn’t birthed anything in Jin, no recognition or fear. Just frustration. Now though…

He – remembers is such a useless word. Remembers? Remembers what? The feeling of terror and the tight expectation and the way Jin’s eyes, genetically engineered to see well in low light, had scraped across the indifferent expressions on both faces, desperate to find something like a reprieve? Like he’d been sure that, if only he had enough time, he could locate some flake of mercy. If only that gun would stop on it's trajectory towards pointing at his chest. If only it would stop. If only someone had been there to stop it.

"We have to tell Namjoon," Jin exhales, and means something else that he can't say.

Already setting up a group call on his OMNI, Jimin replies distractedly. “I know.” Jin accepts the call, the tips of his fingers tingling, and almost immediately two others pick up. Namjoon and Taehyung.

"What is it?" Namjoon asks, the tension in his voice a pressure that Jin hadn't known he was missing until it came, clamping down on all the panicked fear.

"It's Rafa's gang. They're here, east entrance. There's six of them." Jin is vaguely impressed that Jimin had the wherewithal to count - he still can't seem to rip his eyes off of David, who's made it through the gate and stands in the middle of the thoroughfare, ignoring the groups of people who need to dodge around him. His stance is evaluating; the way he swings his head around in a slow sweep reminds Jin of one of the mechanical sentries that had gone out of fashion some thirty decades ago. Uncomfortably methodical. 

"Wait, really?" Meanwhile, Taehyung's exclamation overlaps with an explosive, "Fuck. _Fuck_ ," from Namjoon. The swearing is brief, an expression of disgust and hardly more than that, but it is a surprise all the same. Before there's time for anxiety to surge at that loss of control, Namjoon's tone becomes steadier, smoother. Jin can almost picture the way his face is hardening, eyes going blank as he turns his thoughts inward.

"Have you heard from Yoongi and Jungkook? They're eating right now, yeah?"

Jimin's answer is terse, and Jin can't tell if it's anger or anxiety in the short reply. "They didn't pick up. Should I get them?"

"No, you -"

But there's suddenly a minor obstruction between David and Jin's petrified eyes; it's the man who'd been working the gate, and he's panting from his dash. "Those people," he gasps, voice shrill as he swings around to point directly at David and the rest of Rafa's group, "entered without a ticket. They refused to pay! You have to do something!"

Judging by his strained expression, Jin can't help but think that "something" isn't going to involve anything like a peaceful resolution. Jimin says something about promising to deal with it, voice quick and light and reassuring, but David's caught sight of the gate attendant's accusing finger. His head tilts. He says something to the woman next to him with an almost-laugh, contemptuously easy, amusement set in the heavy lines around his mouth.

Then all six of them start coming towards Jin and Jimin.


End file.
